


Flags At Half Mast

by contemporarydreamer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Death, F/M, M/M, Pining, unfortunately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-04-28 10:32:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5087335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contemporarydreamer/pseuds/contemporarydreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Ilona resorts to begging Harry to let her use his house as a date night spot for her and Zayn.  Harry shakes his head </i>no<i> but says </i>yes<i>, and later googles his symptoms to determine whether he has multiple personality disorder. It turns out he just has a case of the common idiot with a crush disease.  No cure has been found up to date, but he's been donating to the cause. </i></p><p>Alternatively, Harry has a crush on his best friend's boyfriend and Death has a crush on Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 17-18

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in the spring of 1995 and I'm still not quite sure if I've finished. This is the longest thing I've ever written, though, so bear with me please. 
> 
> I will update sequentially.

**17**

The history of Harry and Ilona is almost complicated, except it’s not. The fact of the matter is: Harry and Ilona have been together through too much, despite the age difference. They’re attached at the hip, knees, and neck. Harry’s always said they’re probably split reincarnations of the same person and Ilona makes fun of him because he’s supposed to be Christian - or some variation of it, but Harry knows she agrees.

They’re distantly related somehow. Ilona’s mom is Harry’s dad’s great uncle’s cousin thrice removed — and Bob’s your uncle! — or something of the sort. Ilona claims she was at Harry’s birth, says seeing his umbilical cord is part of what keeps them so close, because even if she wants to, she can’t erase the image of it from the backs of her eyelids but Harry knows that's not true because she was one year old and that's just ridiculous.

Needless to say, it was always a story of two until it became a story of three.

 

***

 

Ilona’s first day of senior year is Harry’s first day of junior year. All Harry knows about high school so far is that calculus is the worst, which makes for intriguing dinner conversation, so he thinks he’s in for a straightforward year. Ilona calls him at midnight and promptly proves him wrong.

“Hello?” he answers with feigned grogginess, as though he’d been sleeping instead of finally starting his homework.

“Harry,” she says and she sounds breathless.

“Ilona,” he tries to replicate the tone of her voice.

She huffs through the phone loudly enough for Harry to hear so he sighs and says, “What.”

“Would you rather date a girl who smelled like vanilla or flowers?” She asks and he lets himself fall backwards onto his bed. He immediately knows she likes someone and it’s a stupid question because she’s the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen and guys would line up for a chance to hold her hand even if she smelled like rotten eggs. “Flowers. Why?”

“There’s this boy in my English class—Zayn, I think his name is, and he’s so gorgeous, Harry.”

Harry yawns. “Is that so.”

“Yes!” She exclaims. “He looks like a model and smells like he uses the most expensive cologne — it’s probably just soap, though! I’m in love with him. His hair looks so soft.” Harry furrows his eyebrows because he’s never heard her talk about anyone this way, not even when she had her first kiss with Pierre when she was thirteen, or when Hasan tried to get to third base with her when she was fifteen. Truthfully, Harry’s always thought dating was below Ilona. She’s lively and bright and enchanting and has enough character for three people. Plus, Harry doesn’t think anyone’s good enough for her, but he sighs and listens as she rambles on about Zayn's beautiful jawline and glistening skin.

 

***

 

It takes her months, but Ilona ends up asking Zayn out on a date because she’s a badass and Zayn eagerly accepts and then they go on consistent dates every few weeks and Harry doesn’t even know what Zayn looks like even though he’s supposed to be Ilona’s best friend of sixteen years, eleven months, and twenty eight days. His seventeenth birthday is in two days and he’s hosting a small dinner of friends and family and Ilona promises to bring Zayn along. “ _Finally_ ,” he says petulantly when she informs him and she smacks his arm with the back of her hand in retaliation. It bruises and he has to wear a long sleeve to his dinner.

The first of February comes too soon for Harry to get closure with his favorite age and suddenly he's seventeen and a centimeter taller and a year closer to growing facial hair, although he doubts he'll ever see the day. The restaurant he's hosting the dinner in is called The Taste of Persia and he's been looking forward to the hummus and pita bread with more zeal than his actual birthday gifts. His mom lets him drive because he's officially had his license for a year and that in and of itself is reason enough to celebrate, but it doesn't stop her from clutching onto the handle above her window for the duration of the drive. It all works out in the end because he doesn't hit another car while parking like he had the first time he tried to drive in reverse. So far, the day shines with ebullient opportunity.

Inside the restaurant are rows of tables with different tablecloths, each seemingly homemade. There's a small stage with a belly dancer in the back and old men with dark facial hair are laughing and chattering in a language that Harry finds a strangely comforting. "Harry!" cries Clara, the only friend of his who would show up early to _his_ birthday dinner, as she runs up to hug him.

The restaurant was her suggestion- she's Armenian-Iranian and beautifully proud. She's beautiful physically too - beautiful and lovely and one of his best friends, and he throws her a big smile before she engulfs him in a hug and suffocates him with her giant hair. Armenian roots, and all. He's caught off guard until he sees her expertly wrapped gift and returns the hug with all the more fervor.

"You're seventeen! Ah!" She says excitedly as they walk to the area he rented for the night. It's close to the belly dancer just in case he runs out of things to talk about.

"So are you!" He says back and they both laugh.

"Sorry I'm early, by the way. I just couldn't wait."

"Neither could I, actually. Finally meeting Ilona's boyfriend, and all that. He'd better be as great as she says he is."

Clara scoots up to the edge of her seat to reply with some sort of nervous excitement on her part but Sophia and Liam walk in loudly before she can.

"Birthday boy!"

Harry would start if he weren't used to it by now. "Liam! What'd you get me?"

Liam grins and crushes Harry in a hug. "Guess you'll have to open it to find out," he replies. Sophia laughs and doesn't let go of Liam's hand, even though her gift appears to be heavier than her and Liam's weight combined.

Next come in Niall, Sami, Dylan, Jess, and Stella, all equal parts obnoxiously boisterous.

 _SORRY IM SO LATE ZOE IS DRIVING AND WE ALMOST DIED. SORRYYYYYY ILL BE THERE SOON I PROMISE. ZAYN IS ON HIS WAY BTW,_ Ilona texts, so Harry excuses himself from the area of excitement and chooses to hover around the entrance of the restaurant because he'd rather drink a glass of spit than start his official birthday celebration without his best friend. A waiter dressed in all black is leaning against the outside of the door, looking down on his phone, which Harry thinks is probably unprofessional, but who is he to judge.

He does linger closer to the waiter though because he's definitely attractive, not that Harry's staring. He has dark hair and stubble and a sculpted face. Harry apparently gets too close because the beautiful waiter looks up from his phone and stares intently at him with eyes the color of pond water. Harry looks down and makes very intense eye contact with the ground as he leans against the wall.

The boy chuckles. "Waiting for someone?"

Harry looks up and nods, smiling awkwardly. "Yeah."

"Me too. I love it when people show up late."

Harry laughs. "It's the best," he agrees, before saying "I thought you were definitely a waiter here."

"Did you?" The guy replies, sounding surprised and cute.

Harry finds himself blushing. "Yeah, I was hoping to order some hummus but now that I know you're not a waiter, I've got to say. I'm disappointed."

"Mate. Ten minutes and we'll eat some hummus together. None of this waiting around for people crap."

Harry chuckles. "So why are you dressed in all black?"

"I'm just trying to be true to what's inside." Harry giggles until he realizes that he's seventeen and that's embarrassing. He looks up and the guy's already looking at him, smiling a lopsided, closed-mouth smile. It only adds to his flawless appearance and Harry thinks he could probably model for Louis Vuitton.

Harry wants to ask for the guys number, even though approximately two out of a hundred people are gay and they both probably live in Canada. He feels like it's a good idea, though, like he was meant to ask this guy for his number. He inches closer and observes the guy's suave Doc Martens before catching his eyes again and saying "I'm Harry, by the way."

The guy stills, widens his eyes, and then clumsily throws his arms out in exaggeration. "You're-! Wait, did you just—well, I guess you couldn't have." He continues speaking to himself at a pace Harry can't quite comprehend before he exhales loudly and says "I'm Zayn! Ilona's...yeah. I guess you might have already known that, but. Unless you didn't. Hi." He sticks his hand out for Harry to shake. The air around them suddenly feels very awkward and Harry feels oddly stiff.

"Um," he says, and let's out a painfully fake laugh, eyes frozen wide. If he were a cartoon character, he would run -physically run- away, leaving a puff of smoke shaped like his body in his wake, but he's very much real and seventeen and a near adult, so he stays rooted to his spot and laughs for the second time, extending his own hand to shake Ilona's almost boyfriend's.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to say much more, because a few feet away, Ilona jumps out of a moving car and runs over to hop onto his back. "Happy birthday, you annoying jerk!" She says happily, squeezing his shoulders . "I'll never forget when you almost poisoned my mom when you were seven. You drain my bank account every time we hang out. Thanks for being my best friend," she finishes and plants a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek.

"Oh," she hops off and stands between Harry and Zayn. "You guys have met."

"Yeah," Harry says, dazed.

"He thought I was a waiter." Zayn adds helpfully and Ilona snorts.

"I'm not surprised." She takes a step closer to Zayn and reaches for his hand and says, “Hi” and Zayn says it back, softly and fondly, and kisses her hand like a romantic asshole.

Ilona’s closest friend—other than Harry— and partner in crime, Zoe, exits from her _now parked_ car and thrusts two gift bag into Harry’s arms. “Ilona forgot about these when she was jumping out of my moving car, sorry about that. She doesn’t seem to value her life or mine.” Harry laughs at the distraction from Ilona and Zayn now giggling in close proximity and thanks Zoe for putting up with Ilona despite her death wish.

Ilona pecks Zayn’s lips and Harry’s had just about enough of them so he says “Let's eat, shall we?” and swiftly goes back inside.

 

***

Inside, Zayn is in his element. He recognizes nearly every item on the menu and every once in a while and says something like “ _kebabs_ ” in a nostalgic tone with a whine in his voice and a hand pressed to his chest and Harry finds it uncomfortably endearing. He doesn’t know where exactly Zayn’s from but he wants to learn and have Zayn show him his culture and his family, which can maybe slap some sense into Harry and tell him he's an idiot for crushing on his best friend's boy...thing.

He feels dumb and childish and ambivalent about the whole thing. He petulantly wishes his best friend hadn’t found the most attractive guy in the country before he had, but he also wishes he could be a mature adult and not be jealous of his closest childhood friend and favorite person. It's all very complicated. He shuts his eyes closed and expels all thoughts about Zayn as best as he can and focuses on his birthday, on how happy is he for Ilona, on how long she's liked him.

It isn't like Harry, to be petty like this. At least that's what he tells himself until Zayn accidentally brushes his hand while getting another piece of bread and Harry finds his own hand is shaking when he retreats it.

 

***

 

Harry's birthday dinner was apparently so fabulous that it prompted Zayn to officially ask Ilona out. It's both romantic and depressing. Ilona celebrated by walking into Harry's room and belting ABBA's _Dancing Queen_. Harry particularly was in a more _Chiquitita_ mood.

He smiled and pulled Ilona into a hug and made a joke about using protection before he realized he didn't want to think about them having sex ever, which is ironic because that's exactly what they start to do, right in his very house.

Ilona's parents are strict to a level that even Harry's mom can't understand, will barely even let Harry spend the night, let alone Ilona's actual boyfriend, so Ilona resorts to begging Harry to let her use his house as a date night spot for her and Zayn. Harry shakes his head _no_ but says _yes_ , and later googles his symptoms to determine whether he has multiple personality disorder. It turns out he just has a case of the common idiot with a crush disease. No cure has been found up to date, but he's been donating to the cause.

That's how he ended up where he is now, listening to Ilona's loud moans and Zayn's soft grunts as they christen the guest bedroom of his mom's house. He appreciates Zayn's effort, at least.

At three am and twenty-four minutes, he finally reacts to the onslaught of grumbling coming from his stomach and trudges weakly to the kitchen to have a piece of toast with _I Can't Believe It's Not Butter_ , which he _can_ believe is not butter because it's better, but he'd never admit that to anyone. When he walks in, Zayn is already there, sitting on the island, eating the not-butter spread right off the knife, toast long finished, and Harry has to flatten his hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. Zayn looks quickly up at him, and then down at the container, a sheepish smile blooming on his face.

"You too?" Harry asks.

"It's better than actual butter!"

"I know!" Harry agrees and snatches the container out of Zayn's hands. Zayn looks soft and rumpled, clad in just light blue boxers and a black t-shirt. His hair isn’t styled anymore, instead it falls down over and around his forehead, only slightly stiff with whatever remains of the gel he put in it earlier. Harry wouldn’t mind wrapping his limbs around him and absorbing his warmth.

"So, you always get hungry at three a.m.?" Zayn inquires.

"Yeah, it's like, been conditioned into my body now. In my internal clock. Have fake butter at three a.m." Zayn laughs genuinely, openly, and it makes Harry's toes curl. He slaps a hand over Zayn's mouth and says, "Shh! People are trying to sleep!" and Zayn stops. His mouth is open against Harry's hand and his breath comes out in a warm moisture against the skin of Harry's palm and Harry blushes three shades too dark before he remembers to take it off. He does, but not before Zayn licks his hand, which makes Harry's nose scrunch.

"In Pakistan, where my grandparents live," Zayn starts, eyes bright, and Harry's more satisfied to learn where Zayn's from than he is to hear the toaster pop, but he still turns towards it to hide his red cheeks from Zayn. "There was this ad on tv - it was so funny, but I literally don't know if it was a joke or not - and it was this family pulling a container of _I Can't Believe It's Not Butter_ out of their fridge, and then it zooms out of the scene and turns out it was a commercial being watched by another family, but this time they pull a container out of their fridge and it's called," he snorts, "I shit you not, _I Can't Believe I Can't Believe It's Not Butter_ ," he starts laughing before he finishes the sentence and Harry joins him, knees going weak as he tries not to fall into Zayn's lap on the island.

"That sounds promising. I'll leave it up to you to find some for us, since you live here now."

Zayn stills. "Is it bothering you? I'm sorry, I didn't think it would be comfortable for you, I can just like, never come here again if you want. Sorry."

Harry swats the concerned look on his face away. "Don't worry about it. I'll start setting the table for three," he says, smiling, and Zayn catches onto the joke.

"That sounds great, thanks. I've actually already moved all my furniture here." Harry grins, imagining Zayn actually living here and seeing Harry every morning and borrowing his clothes.

"So are you and Ilona, like, applying to the same college?" Harry asks on a heavier note, making sure the hand holding the knife of fake butter isn't trembling.

"No, no. We're not _that_ serious." Harry lets out a breath of relief he didn't know he was holding in. "Just the same city," Zayn mumbles and Harry's jaw drops.

"Oh, _okay_ ," he teases. " _Not that serious_. Have you picked out a ring yet?"

Zayn throws him a horrified look before looking down at his lap and shrugging his shoulders. "I dunno, I guess we are pretty serious. I hadn't thought too much about it. Living in the same city. I do like her a lot."

“That’s good,” Harry decides, wishing to change the topic. He finally makes out the prism on Zayn’s shirt and excitedly says, “Cool shirt!” probably too loudly.

Zayn looks down and nods in agreement. “You like Floyd?”

“Are you kidding? I think I was conceived to a Floyd song.”

Zayn laughs out loud, throwing Harry a look as if to say _shut up_. “What’s your favorite album? Wait, no, that’s too vague. What’s your favorite song?”

Harry pretends to ponder the question. “I love that one about the bricks in the wall,” he finally says and Zayn gapes at him. “Kidding!” He laughs. “Kidding. Time, obviously. Pigs. Have A Cigar. And my one true love, Shine On You Crazy Diamond. Plus the crazy laugh in Comfortably Numb.”

Zayn looks more animated than Harry has ever seen him, scooting up on the island and swinging his legs. “No way! Mine are Have A Cigar, Pigs, and Brain Damage. My dad went to a concert in 1972, that's actually where I got this shirt!" Harry gasps and runs his fingers over the aged prism on Zayn's chest.

"That's so sick."

"Finally someone with good music taste," Zayn laughs gratefully.

"Tell me about it. Bless Ilona's heart, her unfortunate passion for house music or whatever she calls it."

Zayn shakes his head somberly. "It happens to the best of us."

Laughter fills the tiny kitchen and they spend the next few minutes in serene stillness, Zayn sitting on the island and Harry standing between his legs, talking about which Pink Floyd hairstyles would suit them best.

By five, the kitchen is a few shades lighter and they've settled on giving Zayn the infamous moustache, using a branch of purple grapes as a visual. Harry's eyes linger on Zayn's skin, on the curve between his neck and shoulder. In a moment of haziness, Harry pulls a grape off of its branch and rolls it down the side of Zayn's neck, trying to balance it in the dip of his shoulder. The air around them feels as thick as molasses and Zayn's eyes are darker than the first time he looked at Harry, now like watered down coffee instead of clear green pond water.

Every detail of the atmosphere points towards a kiss. If Harry's life were a soap opera they'd already be in bed together. As it is, his life isn't a soap opera and he respects his best friend, and the small thought itself is so inappropriate that his cheeks sting with humiliation as he asks himself how he could even consider the prospect. He feels like an asshole and a traitor, all from balancing a grape on Zayn's shoulder and then he feels stupid for overthinking it so such an extent.

"I'm gonna go to bed," he says finally and Zayn pretends to be offended.

"What, that bad? I thought I could pull it off." He strokes where his facial hair would be. He already has a decent amount, but he shaves it off and leaves the area around his mouth smooth and dark.

"Yeah," Harry starts to say, but changes his mind and decides to be honest for the first time in weeks. "No. You'd look great. You look great all the time as it is. I just, you know, don't want to fuck up my sleep schedule too bad."

Zayn gives him a modest smile, eyes big and earnest in contrast, and says, "Yeah, okay. See you too often after this."

"Yeah," Harry agrees without a single doubt.

 

***

 

Things take a strange turn after that. Harry gets uncomfortably hungry around three a.m every night and sneaks away to the kitchen to eat fake butter on toast and talk about pretentious seventies rock bands with Zayn. Every time though, somewhere in between avoiding eye contact with Zayn and willing himself not to blush at Zayn's pathetic jokes, he becomes horribly nauseous and breaks out in a cold sweat.

He feels unbearably weak all the time, like his body is giving up and telling his brain to fend for itself. His muscles are sore after no sign of exercise and and his tongue feels so heavy in his mouth that he can't bring himself to speak even when his mom asks him if he needs to go to a hospital. She takes it as an affirmative and drives him to the emergency room, where all she can say is that he's been acting like a man on the brink of death for the past two weeks.

They take him in after an unfairly long wait and he tells the doctor that he thinks he's dying, which, to be fair, he probably is. They schedule a C.T. scan for the next day and tell Harry that he's not dying and that everything will turn out alright.

 

***

 

As it turns out, he is dying. He has all the symptoms of pulmonary embolism, the same doctor from last night, a warm-faced woman with an Indian accent, informs him. Her name is Dr. Chopra and Harry wouldn’t mind dying with his last mental image being her kind smile.

"If it is detected quickly, treatment is usually life-saving, but there is a chance that we found out a little too late in your case," she tells him sadly. Harry's mother is crying harder than he's ever seen her do before and he feels a drought of despondency so heavy for her that he wants to beat this thing just for her sake. He doesn't think he can, though.

"Wait," he says instead, "Can you explain what exactly that is?" She nods and pulls up a chair next to his bed, showing him the C.T. scan results. She points to a spot in his abdomen sporting a large bump. "That's the result of an excess of red blood cells clogging your artery due to polycythemia. At first we believed it to be a cancer, but we have a greater chance of helping you, knowing that it's not."

Harry feels torn between crying and screaming. "Okay," he says instead.

"Okay," she echoes, looking less than hopeful. "We'll see what we can do and get back to you as soon as possible." And walks out of the room.

As soon as she does, Anne drapes her upper body over his in a hug, shaking with sobs. "Oh, baby. You'll get through this. Don't stop fighting." It sounds very cliché and he can hear the sadness in her voice and he can't.

"I will, mom. Obviously." He stokes her hair. "Please don't cry, mom. I'll fight this. You know I can!" She nods against his neck and finally looks up at him. She pets his hair down and pats his cheeks. "I know. I know you can," she says through a watery smile but it doesn't sound very convincing.

 

***

 

Ilona visits him but doesn't cry. She's sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room when he wakes up, waiting for him and and when she sees him open his eyes she comes over to his bed and grabs his shoulders. "Harry if you die I swear I will kill you in the afterlife. I'll send you straight to hell again," she says seriously and he laughs, thankful for the lightness in the room after so many hours of the opposite. “Zayn’s sitting outside with bloodshot eyes because your mom told him about a clogged artery and he kept saying something about fake butter. You’re driving us all crazy, Harry.”

Harry snorts. “Tell Zayn he has nothing to worry about. Butter’s not the problem.”

Ilona looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about!” She exclaims finally and buries her face in his neck. “Oh, Harry. Don’t die on me.” He wants more than anything to soothe her, his lovely Ilona, but he’s been having trouble on that front lately in face of not actually believing he can come out of this alive.

“I won’t,” he says anyway and hopes he’s not lying.

 

***

 

Later that night, Ilona’s friend, Zoe, visits him and he knows something is wrong immediately because friends can’t visit him, let alone friends of friends. He eyes her warily when she comes in alone.

“Hi, loser,” she says gently and he feels very strange. He almost laughs because she’s wearing all black and there’s a weasel perched on her shoulder which makes sense in approximately zero of the ten realms but he’s not planning to ask for an explanation.

“Am I being punk’d?”

She shakes her head sadly. “I’m afraid not.”

“So my best friend’s other best friend is literally the grim reaper.”

“I’m not actually Zoe. Well, I am. There’s not a Zoe out there who’s not me. But I’ve always been here as Zoe in disguise. I can take it off if you wish.” He imagines what Death would look like in it's purest form and quickly shakes his head.

“How long do I have?”

“Eight days. Time of departure is five a.m. on Wednesday.”

“I don’t want to die!” Harry finds himself wailing unabashedly. He’s more glad than anything that he’s showing this much emotion after days of nothing.

“No one does, sweetie,” Zoe or Death or whoever says.

“Isn’t there anything I can do?” He’s desperate.

“Well, you can file an appeal but those are rarely ever considered. Still worth a shot if you ask me.”

“Okay, okay,” he nods fervently. “How?”

“Well there are three major categories of appeals. The first is hardship cases. That applies if you have a loved one that might suffer exceedingly _because_ of your demise. The second is priority cases, which applies when someone absolutely must avoid death for the good of people around him influenced by his career. The third, and final one, is major unfinished business.” Harry’s heart sinks as he realizes none of them apply to him.

“There’s nothing else?”

“Well,” she pauses. “There is one more, but it’s not widely liked by the council. It is still a fair, even if less common, category. The Soulmate Appeal. We can’t deny anyone close to meeting his soulmate the chance to be with them.”

Harry feels close to tears. “How am I supposed to know who my soulmate is?”

She starts a little as if taken by surprise, then gives a small, coy smile. “Well. You’ve already met him.”

She waits for Harry to respond.

“That,” Harry feels as though he’s coming apart from the insides just saying it out loud. “I think that applies, then.”

“You think you know who your soulmate is?” She inquires.

“Um.” Harry swallows down the lump in his throat. “Yes.”

“And you think you and your soulmate will be together soon?”

“Um. I hope so. I think so. Yes.” He actually doesn't, if it's who he thinks it is, but, what can he do.

“Well I hope you’re right because we’re strict on this one. You have to meet and begin a relationship with your soulmate. After that, you’re granted five years to start a family or simply spend time with them.”

This is all so painfully cliché that Harry takes a moment to check the corners of the ceilings for cameras. When he doesn’t find one he takes a deep breath and looks Death in the eye. “Okay. That’s—okay. That applies to me. I swear it does. Can I do that?”

Death smiles at him, surprisingly kind. “Of course. I’ll be checking up on you occasionally. Good luck, Mr. Styles.”

 

***

 

Harry wakes up the next morning feeling healthier than he’s felt his entire life, which probably says something about his general life style. A nurse is inspecting his heart rate monitor warily when he does and she smiles at him hesitantly when they make eye contact.

“Good morning.” He says.

“Good morning, Harry,” she replies. “How are you feeling?”

“Surprisingly well. Kind of amazing, actually.”

“That’s great! I’m glad to hear that. Dr. Chopra will be here in a just a moment to check up on you.”

Dr. Chopra comes in and tells him that they’ll give him another C.T. scan in a few hours to see the impact of the medicine they gave him last night. He agrees and tries not to giggle at the absurdity of this all. He hopes it wasn’t a dream but truthfully, it probably was and he definitely shouldn’t get his hopes up.

The C.T. scan results come back the next day and Dr. Chopra breaks probably over thirty violations by yelping and engulfing him in a hug. His clot has reduced three times in size and she says he just needs to keep taking oral medication twice a day for another two to three weeks, which even to him sounds ridiculous considering he was on his death bed last night. If he were her he would quit his job and dedicate his life to the church after an occurrence like this one. Who knows, though? Maybe all doctors know about Death and the appeals she grants.

He’s let out of his room and immediately greeted by a crying mother and a screaming best friend, both hugging him simultaneously like a cheesy sitcom family. Over their shoulders, he sees Clara sleeping on her boyfriend, Brunon’s shoulder, an entire tiramisu cake in her lap. Next to her is Jess, who didn’t even bring anything, and yet will still make Harry feel happier than anyone else. Ilona’s twenty-six year old sister is also there, along with her mother, who Harry assumes told her husband to stay at home incase something fatal happened to Harry. Ilona’s dad is Harry’s biggest supporter, which is saying something considering Harry tests all his jokes on him.

He pulls back from the crushing hug and immediately wishes he didn’t because Ilona’s crying and that’s not something he can look at. “You had me scared half to death, you jerk,” she mutters, wiping her eye with the heel of her hand. He grins and hugs her again, even tighter this time.

Zayn is standing behind her, a small smile on his lips as he scratches the back of his neck.

“Hi,” he greets. “I got you a Jell-O. Congratulations on not dying.”

“Thanks,” Harry pretends to scoff but the sweetness of Zayn’s smile turns that plan awry and suddenly he’s hugging Zayn so hard that he can’t catch his breath. It surprises Zayn so much that he drops the Jell-O right on Ilona’s sandal-clad foot and she _oof_ s almost loudly enough to make Harry let go of Zayn, but not quite.

“I missed you at three a.m,” Zayn jokes quietly.

“Did you finish the fake butter?”

“Obviously. I’m a stress eater.”

Harry’s pulse quickens and he hopes Zayn can’t feel it as he hands him his heart.

 

 

**18**

Zayn and Ilona seem so committed by the time they go to New York to spend their college years together that Harry almost regrets asking for an appeal. They share clothes and post just barely different angles of the same selfies taken at the intimate dates they go on nine times a week and Harry can’t get enough, liking each one because apparently he loves the pain. They have a vital relationship - healthy and thriving - and Harry doesn’t know what to do. He thinks about the face of Death and how it smiled at him, no desire to intimidate. He thinks of the weasel on her shoulder.

When did his life become an episode of the Twilight Zone?

 

***

 

The first time Harry went to New York, it was to attend his great uncle’s funeral, so he never particularly felt the urge to go back, and especially never wanted to live there. Ilona promises to show him what New York is really all about, though, she says as she picks Harry and their mothers up from LaGuardia airport when they go to spend Christmas in Manhattan with Ilona.

“Seriously, dude, it’s so pretty everywhere, I’m telling you, once you get past the sometimes questionable smells and the occasional rat—”

“Uh,” Harry interrupts. “No thanks.”

“Whatever. New York doesn’t have time for someone with an attitude like yours, anyway,” Ilona says and rolls her eyes but Harry knows she’s excited to see him because she holds his hand tightly the entire taxi ride.

Zayn’s waiting for them by the food truck they decided upon after they’ve dropped their luggage off at their respective locations because that’s the type of boyfriend he is. “Hi!” He says with an cloyingly sweet smile when he sees Ilona’s mother, Meredith, and gives her a polite hug. He does the same with Anne, as thanks for letting him spend the night all those weekends. By the time he’s reached Harry, he’s slightly out of breath and shivering. 

“Hey,” Harry says and smiles. He won’t do anything to his best friend’s relationship.  Obviously. Zayn’s smile reaches his eyes, clearly thrilled to see him, as he embraces him and presses a quick kiss to his neck. “Hi,” he says once he’s pulled back. He seems to be glowing, but maybe Harry’s biased. Zayn is his soulmate, after all.

“So. How’s college life?” Harry asks as they stand in line. It’s a Greek food truck that Zayn probably had a big role in choosing because of his inconceivable need to eat hummus a five times a week. It complements Harry’s refusal to go a day without bread. The thought is pathetic.

“Good! It’s good. Everything here is so expensive and I feel like the amount of times I eat fast food in a week can’t be healthy but,” he sighs dramatically, “it’s all good. How’s high school life?”

Harry’s face unfreezes because of how much blood rushes to his face as he realizes how silly he must seem to Zayn. “Shut up, I’m almost done. And I made a killer SAT score so I can finally escape the suburbs of California!” He says it with an evil grin and throws both arms out away from his body to try to act out a wicked laugh but stops when he remembers he’s minutes away from hypothermia.

“Yeah? What was it?”

“Twenty-three eighty.”

“Shit, Harry,” Zayn says loud enough for the people behind them to hear. “Have you considered applying to ivy leagues?”

“You don’t have to be rude,” Harry mumbles and looks down.

“No, I’m serious. You could make it with a score like that.”

Harry bites his lip, finally exposing his teeth to the below-freezing air in a wide smile. “Really? I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“Columbia is a really great one, I think.”

Harry snorts, about to reply that Zayn can purchase his own _I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter_ and not persuade Harry to move all the way to New York so he can continue to steal his, thank you very much, when he realizes his tongue is practically frozen in place and his teeth are chattering. Why he thought a jacket and a beanie would be enough, he still doesn’t know.

“Oh, are you cold?” Zayn says when he notices, taking off his scarf and wrapping it around Harry’s neck. "Here, my mom always used to warm me up like this." He takes Harry's hands in a prayer position and rubs them in between his gloved ones. He’s close enough for Harry to feel Zayn’s hot breath on his face and the moment feels so intimate that Harry has to make sure Ilona’s not watching. She’s not, thankfully, instead is chatting with Harry’s and her own mother, no doubt complaining about her ambivalence towards lamb kebabs.

“I’m better now.”

“That’s good. So tell me. When are we going to catch up at three a.m? I need to save the date.” Zayn says it with a serious tone. Harry ponders for a moment, but has no time to respond because they're next in line to order. 

After they've done so, Harry leans into Zayn, close but hopefully not close enough for Zayn to feel Harry’s erratic heartbeat, and says, “Definitely soon”.

He only a few seconds later, when Zayn blushes, realizes what an asshole he’s been and darts over to stand by Ilona’s side to ask more about her crazy biology professor.

 

***

 

Later that night, after his and Ilona’s moms have settled into their hotel room in Brooklyn and he unpacks his toiletries in Ilona’s dorm, Zoe calls Ilona.

“Bitch!” Ilona says when she answers, smiling wryly. “Sorry I forgot to call earlier today, Harry and my mom are visiting.”

Zoe says something, to which Ilona laughs and says to Harry: “Here, she says she wants to talk to your ‘fake ass’”.

Harry’s heart beats a mile a minute as he takes the phone from Ilona’s hand. “Zoe!” He says warily when he puts it to his ear.

“Harry!” She replies. “Go to the bathroom.” He complies for fear of his life.

Zoe’s already waiting there when he enters, leaning against the counter, holding her unnecessary weasel. “So?” She asks.

“So what?”

“So, have you progressed in your Soulmate Appeal?”

“Um.”

“Harry, I can’t give you forever. If I hadn’t seen you two blushing idiots in person before I would think you were taking advantage of me.”

“I’m not!” Harry yelps. “I would never. It’s just hard.”

“Life is hard.”

“Well, you of all people should know how _especially_ hard my situation is.”

“Life is hard,” she repeats.

“Zoe—” he starts. “Uh, Death, Grim Reaper, whoever you—”

“Grim Reaper?” She cries. "Whatever happened to trust?”

“Sorry, I don’t usually befriend the forces of nature,” Harry replies with a roll of the eyes.

“Call me Zoe.”

“Anyway. You realize that this soulmate is dating my best friend, right?”

“Harry,” she puts the damned weasel on her shoulder and stands up, but he sits down on the toilet to distance himself from her. “It’s in the contract. These are the rules. I’m not making this up. You can’t just escape death like this. You have to fulfill your appeal.”

He nods, suddenly lightheaded. “Okay. Okay. I will.”

 

***

 

By the time he’s done with his interaction with Hades, Ilona’s waiting for him on her roommate’s bed. She’s apparently a nice girl with a collection of awesome tattoos, but she’s staying at her girlfriend’s dorm for the week so Harry can have her bed.

“Done?” Ilona asks Harry.

“Yeah,” he affirms.

“I miss Zoe,” Ilona sighs. “No one can throw an insult like she can.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “She is Satan.”

Ilona laughs, the reference going over her head, understandably.

He walks over to her and sits down right in her lap like he used to when they were younger. "So. You and Zayn. Tell me everything."

 

***

 

They sit together on Ilona’s small bed and talk until both of their tongues are dry, then they watch a movie on her laptop. Harry tries at least, but he can’t stop thinking of her desktop background. It’s a picture of Zayn’s bird tattoo and Harry wonders worriedly if she plans to get a matching one. A bird in the same spot on her hand. Or worse: what if they get a couples tattoo, like two puzzle pieces?

Harry shakes his head to rid it of the thought, but his heart doesn’t unclench.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he lies, “just remembering how good that lamb pita was today.” Ilona laughs, thankfully.

She shines with joy and Harry can understand why: she’s dating a beautiful graphic design major and her childhood best friend is visiting her from California and her life is perfect except for the small fact that her best friend will die if he doesn’t steal her boyfriend.

He resolutely decides, then and there, to not do it. How can he? Ilona, for all he knows, is in love with Zayn. How can he put his life before his closest friend’s happiness?

The last thought feels like a slap to the face because he knows if Ilona ever hears him say it she’ll do just that—slap him hard in the face, and he stops and wonders if he should just tell her about the whole thing. He can’t though, because he enjoys not living in an insane asylum. Ilona's smarter than she lets on. She could very well figure it out. He sighs as he realizes he has to.

 

***

 

Zayn comes by tomorrow and the three of them decide to walk around the best parts of the city like tourists. Harry tells them that he would rather not look like a tourist, if they don’t mind, and they both make appalled faces as though they can’t believe he thought they would take him to see the Statue of Liberty.

Instead, they go to a small café where every table is made of stacked books and the pastries are homemade and the owner almost kicks Harry out for asking about gluten-free options. They show Harry where cats like to hang around by the apartment complex of an old Bulgarian woman on the eighth floor who always throws her leftover schnitzels out the window. Much to Ilona's chagrin, Zayn shows Harry his favorite graffitied wall building, a two hour walk away, which is colored with the most elaborately painted superheroes Harry has ever seen.

They eat at a European-style outdoor restaurant where "iced coffee" means "coffee with a scoop of vanilla ice cream" and "lemonade" means "fanta lemon in a glass bottle". There are so many potted flowers and lavish plants everywhere that Harry can't remember what normal air smells like and it's perfect. The pizza he orders tastes like a variation of the word "home" that he hasn't yet been able to use and the woman who placed it in front of him didn't speak a word of English. He's never felt more at peace than he does now, but maybe that's because of Zayn's bright eyes staring at him and the side of his foot touching Harry's under the table.

Before long, Ilona makes a surprised sound that very clearly indicates that Zayn's hand is on her thigh. Zayn chuckles and kisses her cheek and Harry, annoyed, proposes they leave now so they can have time to watch the sunset like in those angsty teenager movies. 

 

***

 

Knowing that his life is on hold has instilled a sense of ludicrous naivety in Harry. He figures, he won't die until after he's settled down with Zayn, so he _can't_ die until then. At least that's his process of thought as he starts crossing a street before the light turns red.

It's almost like the _Harry Potter Can Never Die_ hypothesis made by a fourteen year old who took "Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives," too literally. It's absurd because Harry never even agreed with that logic, knowing that Harry Potter, obviously, will die one day. When it comes to his own life though, apparently, he decides he's invincible—immortal, even, until the day he finishes the task he asked for an appeal for. Logically speaking, he can and will die if hit by a car while crossing the street. Both Ilona and Zayn agree as Ilona screams at the top of her lungs and Zayn yanks Harry back so hard into his chest that they both nearly fall back onto the sidewalk.

"Harry, you idiot!" Ilona yells and smacks an inevitable bruise onto his forehead.

"Jesus, Harry," Zayn says from where he's still holding him, "you'd think one near death experience would be enough for you."

"Seriously, do you have a death wish?" Ilona asks incredulously.

"No! No. I just wasn't looking. That was stupid."

"You're damn right it was stupid."

Harry doesn’t respond to her and instead stills, sighing as Zayn’s heart beats into the muscles of his back.  But he lets go, eventually. 

 

***

 

On the second to last day before he has to leave New York, Zayn invites him over to spend the night at his dorm, because his roommate by some lucky supernatural force is finally getting laid. He says he has fake butter and everything. Of course Harry says yes. Irrational thinking is a side-effect of self-hatred, according to Webmd.

Ilona walks them to Zayn’s building and gives Zayn a goodnight kiss, saying, “Stay safe, boys,” with a wink like only she would.

Zayn leads Harry up to the third floor, the eighteenth room down the hall to the right, and into his shabby dorm room. Ilona’s, although closer to the size of Harry’s closet than his bedroom, is larger than Zayn’s. Zayn has a two beds, a mini fridge, a microwave, and a toaster, despite the obvious inference that the dorm was not meant for kitchen appliances. Harry wants to walk to Zayn and put a finger over his mouth and press his lips to his neck, but he also wants to run out of the room and fly back to California where he can move to a farm and change his name and pretend he never personally met the angel of death.

The moment passes and they both look at each other and Zayn gives him a shy smile.

“Sorry, heater’s half broken,” he says when he notices Harry shivering.

He grabs two cans of coke from the mini fridge and throws one at Harry as they both fall back onto his twin bed. “So, how are you really coping without me?” Zayn asks with a teasing smirk and Harry grins easily. “Awful. I miss you everyday.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“So, sorry there’s not much for us to do. I have a bunch of movies downloaded onto my computer, though. Pirates of the Caribbean and The Lion King and nearly all the Marvel movies.”

Harry sits up. “Fantastic Four?”

“God, yeah. That was the first one I downloaded.”

“Oh god. That movie is my life. Jessica Alba was so hot in it.”

“And Chris Evans.”

Harry laughs out loud and Zayn says, “What? If you’re about to say no homo, I swear…”

“Zayn,” Harry says. “You know I’ve dated boys, right?”

“Oh,” Zayn says and smiles. “I’ll put it on.” He does and scoots up along the bed so he’s leaning against the wall and pats the spot next to him for Harry to fill. Harry does and the entire lengths of their bodies are touching because of the narrowness of the bed.

It’s only eleven but they both end up falling asleep within the first hour of the movie, Zayn’s head on Harry’s shoulder, his soft breathing evening out with Harry’s. Before long, though, Harry feels a pillow smack into his face and he groans with a start.

“Wha?”

“It’s three a.m,” Zayn grumbles, eyes still closed. “I set an alarm. Ugh. I haven’t done this in forever.” Harry’s heart jumps and fizzles. Zayn puts two pieces of bread in the toaster and they both laugh as he takes out the long awaited _I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter_ with an aggrandized gesture. Harry walks around the tiny dorm as they wait for the toast to finish and spots things he hadn’t seen before. There’s a Led Zeppelin poster on the wall above Zayn’s dresser. Photos of Zayn and Ilona are pinned up to a bulletin board above his dresser. Unfinished sketches are scattered all about his desk, some that look suspiciously like Harry. His breath catches again and again and again.

He focuses on a sketch of a lotus instead.

"This is _beautiful_ ," he declares, smacking the drawing onto the table where the kitchen would be if the dorm had one.

Zayn mumbles something that Harry can't understand and looks down, a faint smile on his lips.

"Is it a tattoo idea?"

"Yeah."

"Why haven't you gotten it yet?"

"It's..." Zayn shrugs. "It's a lotus so it symbolizes change and rebirth and, like. Renewal. And I haven't really had that. I don't even know if I will."

Harry thinks, _you will, you will, you will_ , before realizing he might not because Harry's a coward whose time will probably run out. He doesn't say anything.

The toast pops up and it feels just like old times as they spread the creamy fake butter onto their toast as the Devil's hour peaks.

"Maybe you will," Harry says at last.

"I don't know. I hope so."

 

***

 

They change in front of each other and brush their teeth side by side and Zayn flicks toothpaste onto Harry's forehead and Harry retaliates by stepping on Zayn's foot.

There's something about the way Zayn looks when he's decided he doesn't want the world to see him anymore. He says "I'm gonna take a shower, I'll be back in five seconds."

There happens to be one single sheet on Zayn's roommate's bed and the heater in the dorm is slowly dying, so Zayn pats the space next to him on his own bed when he emerges from the shower and ignores Harry's hesitation. But Harry agrees and adjusts himself next to Zayn.

There's a Star Wars poster on the ceiling above Zayn's bed and they talk about that, a gleeful tone in Harry's voice as he talks about his crush on Anakin Skywalker. Zayn agrees and asks what color Harry's lightsaber would be and Harry says "Light blue, obviously," and Zayn doesn't respond because he's already asleep. Harry sighs and closes his own eyes.

 

***

 

The next time he wakes up, he finds he can't move. He opens his eyes to scope out the situation, which is Zayn wrapped around him so tightly that it looks like he would crack like a statue if Harry moved. Their legs are tangled together and Zayn's open lips are pressed to a damp spot on the front of Harry's t-shirt. His head is being cradled by Harry's arms as Harry's chin rests peacefully on the center of the top of his skull and Harry wonders how they managed to adjust themselves like this—holding onto each other for dear life.

Zayn takes an uneven intake of breath and incoherently mumbles something that sounds like "Captain Jack Sparrow" and then he pushes so Harry rolls onto his back and Zayn's head rests over his sternum. Zayn sighs and dips a sleepy hand under Harry's shirt and presses it unknowingly to the burning skin of his stomach and Harry tries his hardest not to melt into the bed and stop living.

 

***

 

By the time Harry leaves to go back to California, he's resolutely decided that he still doesn't like New York. That doesn't stop him from applying to school there because he loves Ilona and he will love Zayn and that's enough.

He takes Zayn's advice and applies to two ivy leagues: Princeton and Columbia. He somehow gets into both and when his mother sees the letters, she cries "Princeton!" at the same time that Harry says "Columbia". It's rash and unwise but he hasn't seen Zayn in so long that he isn't thinking properly.

It turns out that living with Ilona in a cheap apartment is less expensive than splitting the cost of a dorm, and Anne is cheap if nothing else. Cheap or not, Harry cannot bring himself to understand how Ilona's apartment is legal. When he steps in for the first time, the air conditioner is making a low grumbling noise he's momentarily afraid that the ceiling is going to fall on him. Ilona welcomes him with open arms, though, and says, "Welcome to my crib." He can barely get his bags through the front door and when he does he lets out a sigh of relief only to be faced with the challenge of unpacking in a room the size of a thumbnail.

Ilona hears him groan and says, "Don't worry, you'll get used to it." He's sure he will because she did and the entire apartment is the size of her bathroom in California.

She doesn't let him unpack and instead sits him down on the old couch in the central area of the apartment and tells him about all her professors, classes, and friends, so Harry can be more involved in the local gossip. She gives him some advice about when to wake up to get to class on time and what shortcuts are the fastest to the subway if he needs it.

Lastly, she says, "And if anyone who goes to Juilliard hits on you, I swear, Harry. Text me and bring them home and marry them. Never pass up on the change to date a future A-lister."

They go out for Indian food and then Ilona takes him to Century 21 so he can add some character to his room. He picks out a supposedly vintage night stand and a lamp that's supposed to make your room look like a forest when it's turned on. By the time they get back, it's late and Ilona has to sleep because she has work in the morning but she says, "I texted Zayn that you're here and he totally wants to come welcome you but he's into the whole _working until the sun rises_ thing, art minor and all that, so I guess he'll let himself in sometime during the night."

Harry says, "Okay" and tries to even out his breathing.

 

***

 

The front door creaks open a few hours later and Harry hears footsteps toward Ilona's room, then towards his, presumably having changed. The door opens a tiny sliver and Zayn says softly, "Babe?"

Harry doesn't answer because he's suddenly furious with Zayn for being fucking stupidly attractive and flirting with him but otherwise remaining in a beautiful, loyal relationship. Zayn, oblivious to Harry's fuming, leans in and runs a finger over the bridge of Harry's nose and chuckles.

Harry wonders how things would be different if soulmates were physically distinguishable. If Harry had a mark behind his ear or on the inside of his thumb that Zayn could look at and press his lips to and say, "It's you." Then Zayn wouldn't have to choose between Harry and Ilona and Harry wouldn't have to choose between life and death. Then he could have met Zayn and have known within hours, and he could have leaned him back into a wall and sucked on his fingers and kissed his eyelids and have Zayn all to himself. He doesn't open his eyes, not even when Zayn leaves to go back to Ilona's room.

 

***

 

When Harry wakes up, Zayn is in the kitchen. He says "Hey. I made eggs. To welcome you and whatnot."

"Sunny side up?"

"Scrambled," Zayn replies, appalled. "Who do you take me for?"

"Should have known better than to undermine you like that," Harry agrees and Zayn laughs.

They eat sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Zayn putting his feet in Harry's lap.

"What's this?" He asks, running the tip of his finger over a number sign on Zayn's calf.

"I just like the way it looks. The symmetry. The way the lines cross so evenly. It's so unlike me, I guess, so pristine."

"Oh. I think I'd want a tattoo."

"Really? You can get one. We can go today. Seriously. Like, right now. Do you know what you want?" 

"Yeah, I do, but. Not now. Maybe on my birthday."

"That's cool. I'll go with you. Ilona and I are getting matching tattoos." Zayn says it with an air of casualty that makes Harry's heart stutter because he remembers that Zayn loves Ilona. Really, truly, _let's get matching tattoos_ loves her. Harry can't blame him because he loves Ilona too, but he wants to grab Zayn by the shoulders and tell him to stop, to shake him and say _it's me, it's me, it's me_ , but the only evidence he has of that is that a personification of death told him while he was being severely hospitalized, which unfortunately, is not very convincing.

When they finish their breakfast, Harry washes the dishes and Zayn dries them and then Harry asks Zayn to help him unpack before he has the chance to run out of the apartment. Zayn looks horrified when he takes a good look at all of Harry's boxes and bags but he finally, reluctantly agrees. They argue over what playlist to put on when finally they settle on making a new one.

Zayn lets Harry make it while he lists off songs they absolutely _have_ to add. Harry puts it on shuffle when he's done and then dies laughing when Britney Spears starts playing half way through like he planned. Zayn puts down the picture frames he's holding and grabs a sock to throw at Harry.

Ilona comes home while 90's pop is still playing and Zayn greets her as though he hasn't seen her in decades and pulls her into a ridiculous dance. They both laugh and Zayn holds her hand and looks at her like she parted a sea.

 

***

 

Summer makes way to fall and school starts - Harry's first year of college. He's majoring in political science and business management because he's boring and wants to be rich. It doesn't start interesting conversations, but he takes on wearing ludicrous outfits to make up for that and finds that it works. He joins pottery club and founds a local charity organization in Columbia to help Southeast Asian children receive proper educations.

He was wearing a tiger print shirt buttoned to his belly button under his coat when he met an eclectic boy named Jean - pronounced John but spelled Jean because his mother is too pretentious for her own good. It's been a warm Christmas and Harry wanted nothing more than a chilly snack to contradict the warm, syrupy drinks usually being sold around Christmas time. Jean prepared a plain, strawberry-topped frozen yogurt for Harry and didn't even charge him for it because the shop was empty and he thought Harry was cute. Harry blushed and swooned and gave Jean his number and took him home and gave him a sloppy handjob before they even reached the bed, hopefully loud enough for Zayn to hear through the hallway separating them.

He wakes up the morning after feeling that, just maybe, things will be alright.


	2. 19

**19**

Jean's been around for a week, sleeping in Harry's bed and borrowing his clothes like a character in a modern love story. Having him around doesn't feel like much of a love story though, because everything Harry does feels like it's to spite Zoe, or Zayn, or both. He feels terrible because Jean is a sweet, sweet boy with a gentle mouth and soft blond hair, but he's not Zayn, who doesn't seem too pleased to have Jean around either. Harry accidentally-on-purpose didn't tell him or Ilona that there was a boy sleeping in his bed with him so when he walked out of his room and into the kitchen, hand on Jean's back one morning, Zayn dropped the egg he was flipping abruptly enough to burn himself with the cooking oil that jumped out of the pan when it landed with a _hiss_ , and rushed back to Ilona's room to grab a shirt. He'd become accustomed to greeting Harry in nothing but a flimsy pair of boxers every morning, which Harry both loved and hated for obvious reasons.

It's not as though Zayn is impolite. He's cordial, to say the least. He makes an egg for Jean every morning after he stays over - although Harry can tell he pointedly doesn't season it - and he asks Jean about what he majors in, what he likes doing in New York, if he has a job. Jean is majoring in vocal performance and dance at Tisch in NYU because he plans to make it big, he tells Zayn and Zayn very nearly snorts, which Harry thinks is out of line considering Zayn thinks he can make it as a graphic artist in Manhattan. Either way, Harry can't be bothered to pay attention because he really doesn't give a flying fuck about what Zayn thinks of Jean.

Later after Jean has left, Zayn asks Harry if he wants to bring him along to karaoke on Zayn's birthday, but when Harry realizes how serious Zayn thinks he is about Jean so he quickly shakes his head—he doesn't even know Jean's last name. Zayn lets out a sigh of relief and says, "Okay", which Harry agrees with.

 

***

 

The next day when Harry goes to the restroom in between study sessions, Zoe is already there waiting for him and it scares Harry so much he almost lets a bit of pee slip out. "What the hell?"

Zoe's face looks calmer than he's ever seen as she says, "Is this a joke?"

"What?"

"Are you actually dating someone who's not Zayn, or are my eyes deceiving me?"

Harry falters, moving his fingers rhythmically against his leg. "I...am not. Dating him, that is."

"Harry. Do you expect me to take you seriously when you're clearly having sexual intercourse?"

"Sexual inter—" Harry starts, his face contorted in an uncomfortable expression at her choice of words, but she interrupts and says, "You are dying, Harry. Literally speaking. You will die sooner if you choose to do this."

Harry stares at her for a moment or too, feeling a petulant mood swing coming. "He doesn't fucking want me! He loves Ilona and he's going to marry her! What the fuck can I _do_ about that?"

Zoe looks like she wants to slap him. "I can't believe you're legitimately trying to argue the claim that your soulmate doesn't love you. Make a move on his birthday or I'll make one for you."

Harry scoffs. "What does that even mean?"

Zoe opens her mouth then closes it. She's really not as frightening as she tries to let on. "I don't know. I got carried away. Just," she wets her fingers and flicks water at his face, "Get a move on."

 

***

 

She's right, so Harry leaves the bathroom and texts Zayn saying _lets go out!!!!!!!_. Zayn says _sure. b there in 20_ but Harry responds with _no, I'll come get you_. He calls Ilona and tells her that he's taking Zayn out for a pre-birthday celebration and to not wait up for him and then is on his way.

Contrary to popular belief, Zayn does have his own apartment, that he shares with his friend Louis, and Harry actually really likes it. Louis is just as serious about his girlfriend, Eleanor, as Zayn is about Ilona so the apartment is probably empty most of the time, but Harry completely understands why neither of them has moved out because it's a glimpse of paradise. It's been in Louis's family for twenty years now - illegally of course - so it's in a great area and is humongous and is much cheaper than it would be if it were being occupied legally.

Harry leaves as soon as he finishes the call and picks up a cupcake on the way there. He takes the subway to a vintage comic book store he saw one day when he was going to a house party with Ilona and selects the first thing he sees that Zayn doesn't already have—a Captain America complete set that puts a whopping dent in his wallet but he doesn't mind because it's Zayn. He also stops by Niall's—his legal-aged friend—for a bottle of gin.

Zayn greets him with an impossibly sweet smile when he gets to his apartment and Harry hugs him when he sees it. "Happy early birthday," he says into Zayn's hair when he hugs him as best as he can while he's holding a cupcake in a box in one hand and a comic book in the other.

"Is that why you wanted to go out? Harry," he says incredulously. "My birthday's not for a week."

"I know. I just wanted an excuse to go out with you. And to get you this," he says as he hands Zayn the bag. _All or nothing_ , he figures. Zayn takes the bag with wary hands and looks inside and nearly drops it.

"Holy shit." He finally manages to say and closes the bag. "What the fuck?" Harry giggles.

"Harry, this costs a fortune. I could sell my family and still not make enough to buy this. Okay, maybe it's not that—still!"

Harry shrugs. "I just saw it and thought you would like it."

"Well," Zayn looks inside the bag again, apparently refusing to touch the set, "You were right. Holy shit. This Is amazing." He finally smiles and says, "Holy shit" one more time before putting it aside and hugging Harry to within an inch of his life. "Thank you," he mumbles again and again. "I love it."

"I also brought some gin. And I figured you would have tonic. And I thought we could just, like, go to Central Park and chill."

Zayn steps back and takes the gin, inspecting it curiously, before saying, "I know somewhere better."

 

***

 

The somewhere better turns out to be the fucking roof of the Goldman Sachs building. Harry almost throws up; he doesn't think he's ever been on a building this tall before. In fact, the tallest thing he's ever stood on before is probably the monkey bar set in the playground near the neighborhood where he grew up. This is definitely a change. Zayn knows a guy who knows the cousin of the guy who cleans the roof and windows, and he somehow managed to get the key to the door leading up to it. It took a few hours, but here they are.

"What the fuck," says Harry, looking over the railing.

"I know."

"Holy shit." Harry's legs are shaking so hard he has to sit down in the middle and lean on a ventilator as Zayn follows him. "This is amazing. Happy early birthday. I can't believe we're here."

Zayn smiles a smile that Harry hasn't seen before and Harry loves it, loves that after a year of more or less living with Zayn, he still gives him endless opportunities to learn new things. They open the bottle of gin and chug right out of it, alternating between the gin and the tonic and mixing them in their mouths instead of in cups like they should. Harry hasn't been drunk in a while, hasn't partied at all in a while in face of not failing his first year at an Ivy League college, so he lays down completely and closes his eyes after three sips, which is a new low even for him.

Zayn jokes that he needs to slow down or else he'll fall off the building and Harry giggles annoyingly and blindly tries to slap Zayn's cheek, but misses and instead accidentally sticks a finger in Zayn's mouth which makes them laugh even more.

"Are you happy?" Harry manages to ask somewhere in between telling a stupid joke and explaining the substantial difference between toast and fried bread, and Zayn immediately says, "Yes," eyes closed. "Are you?" He asks in retaliation and Harry nods even though it's not exactly true. He's not depressed and that's what matters, he figures. He sits up so his head is closer to Zayn's.

Zayn sighs contentedly and sticks his hand above the vent and then presses it to Harry's cheek, cooling it. Harry jerks and laughs and says, "Stop," but he doesn't want him to, instead putting his hand over Zayn's and keeping it there on his cheek. He closes his eyes and thinks about Zayn and all his parts—about the softness of his lips and his white teeth and pretty smile, about the skin between his fingers that Harry sometimes idly pulls on so Zayn's hands can look webbed like a reptile's. He thinks of the perpetual warmth of his palm and the extra bone he has at the top of his spine that juts out like a button to press. He thinks of the time when he was seventeen and rolling grapes down Zayn's neck and how things haven't changed much since then. It all suddenly feels like too much to carry, like his organs are working too fast so he drops his head on Zayn's shoulder and sags against him while his pulse quickens and his eyes moisten for no valid reason. Zayn's hand finds the back of Harry's neck and his lips find Harry's cheek and if Ilona weren't in the picture Harry thinks this would be the moment that they would finally share a time-stopping kiss and everything in the world would cease to exist except for them: soulmates.

But Zayn doesn't kiss him and Harry doesn't either and it's probably for the best.

Instead, they both stay there, unmoving until Zayn says "God, Harry," against Harry's cheek.

"Hmm?"

"Stop it."

"Stop what."

"Fucking..." Zayn grabs for Harry's limp hand and presses it to his chest so Harry can feel his heart beating and Harry feels... He feels pathetic. Everything in his life is pathetic.

 

***

 

Zayn walks Harry back to his apartment but they don't make eye contact on account of Harry staring at his feet the entire way there. Zayn seems to have forgotten about the incident altogether as he rambles on about how he'd like to pick up a stray cat one day and take care of it until it's domestic. Harry doesn't comment, but he does press a quick kiss to Zayn's cheek when they arrive, leaving him stunned at the doorstep as Harry rushes inside and slams the door behind him.

 

***

 

Zayn chooses to have his actual twentieth birthday celebration at a karaoke place, par Ilona's suggestion. It's a lot of fun, even though Harry invites a boy named Jack from his business management class last minute so he doesn't have to watch Zayn and Ilona making out all night. He sings (or...raps) twice—both times Biggie songs—which definitely makes up for Jack's general grossness. Jack is twenty-two and arrived already drunk, slobbering all over Harry and groping him under the table. He even went as far as to lick Harry's face in front Zayn and all his friends, leaving Zayn glaring like Harry had never seen before.

He hadn't been expecting Jack to come on so strongly so around the fourth time that he feels a heavy hand on his upper thigh, he excuses himself to the bathroom and stands in a locked stall until the nausea passes.

"Harry?" Zayn's voice comes after a few minutes and Harry feels terrible that Zayn left a room of fifteen of his closest friends to check on Harry. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Harry says even though he feels like throwing up.

"Can you open the door?" Zayn asks and Harry reluctantly does, trying to calm his disobedient stomach.

"Hi," he says when he sees Zayn's concerned expression. "I'm sorry. I'm being stupid, please go back and enjoy yourself on your birthday."

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry. Tell me what's wrong." 

Harry tries to remember what exactly he ordered so he can tell Zayn he's feeling sick from the food but the words roll off his tongue before he can stop them. "Jack is a fucking dog and he's disgusting and I don't want to be out there with him." He groans.

Zayn furrows his eyebrows, lips taut. His face hardens into an expression close to the glare he enacted before when Jack was French kissing Harry's cheek, but he softens it when he sees Harry cower under his gaze. He brings a hand up to Harry's shoulder and says, "Okay, I'm gonna go out there and tell Jack he needs to leave."

"No, don't," Harry shakes his head quickly. "I don't want to be mean."

"You're not being mean, babe," Zayn says. "Fine, how about I go out there and tell him that you ate something bad and you're really sick and he should go because he's clearly not gonna get any tonight. And then you can sit by me so you're not alone, okay?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "I'm not a kid, Zayn.  You don't need to invite me to sit by you so that I'm not alone.  I can handle being alone like a grown up, thanks."

"Fine, then.  Sit by me because I want you to."

Harry blinks. "Fine."

Zayn walks out, and a few minutes later when he texts him that Jack's gone and to come, Harry goes. 

 

 

***

 

Harry has a three a.m slice of toast with _I Can't Believe It's Not Butter_ for the first time in months that night to distract himself from the noises coming from Ilona's room. After Zayn finishes whatever he was up to, by some surprising spell of luck, he decides to come out too.

"Hey," he says in surprise when he sees Harry. "You okay?"

Harry nods even though he doesn't think he is. "Yeah. That was just...weird. Wasn't expecting it." He puts another piece of bread in the toaster next to his. "Sorry if I ruined your birthday."

"Stop thinking you ruined my birthday," Zayn tells him grimly. "You didn't. You couldn't if you tried."

"Thanks," Harry says on an exhale. "I think."

"Just tell me if something like that happens again, okay? I don't like seeing you like that." Harry feels out of breath. _You wouldn't ever see me like that if you would just be with me_ , he'd like to say but decides against it.

"Thanks again for telling him to leave."

"Don't mention it. He was an asshole."

"He was," Harry agrees.

Their toast pops up.

 

***

 

The morning of Harry's nineteenth birthday, Ilona wakes him up by jumping on his bed until he has no choice but to open his eyes with a groan. Zayn walks in shortly afterwards, carrying a bag of Harry's favorite pastries. They're all still warm and Harry imagines Zayn running around New York City like a madman at Ilona's command.

The two of them take him out for a late lunch at two and then they go to Central Park to feed the ducks likes he's always joked about doing but has never done. When they finally get home, it's seven and Harry's ready to take a long deserved nap except when he opens the door, half the population of New York jumps up from behind the couch and shouts, "SURPRISE!"

He can't say he's not surprised. He doesn't even know how Ilona and Zayn did it. Harry lives a meager existence - doesn't even have more than ten friends at any given time - yet there are at least forty people in the apartment and he didn't even know it could fit that many. There's cake and cupcakes and pie, as well as ten boxes of pizza and a bunch of balloons. Disco music starts playing at some point and Harry starts dancing with Niall and Nick from across the street and some girl named May with light green hair and gauges and then he gets drunk on four too many appletinis and ends up passing out on the couch after eating half a box of cheese pizza and three strawberry cupcakes. He thinks overall, it was a birthday well spent.

 

***

 

Eating early morning toast with fake butter has become routine in Harry's life, and in Zayn's. They always eat toast even though there's enough leftover pizza in the fridge to last them their whole lives. It happens every night and if there's any chance that it might not, one boy will tip-toe to the bed of the others and shake him awake so the tradition doesn’t break. They never run out of things to talk about, but it's that time of year when college students start miraculously dropping off the face of the Earth for days at a time and reappearing with undereye circles darker than science can explain - _finals week_ , Zayn calls it. So they've taken to studying in each other's companies at the breakfast table or on the couch or in the sink disposal or hanging off the balcony. It's tough.

For reasons unknown to Harry, they make an unspoken agreement to not tell Ilona about their late night rendezvous. There's no reason not to, but it feels more illicit somehow and it must excite them both. Zayn, bless his heart, either ignores or simply doesn't notice when Harry stares at his mouth for too long or moves his hand like he wants to touch him. To be fair, Harry thinks he sees Zayn staring too. They've both learned to avoid it even though Harry wishes one night Zayn would come to the kitchen and put a hand over Harry's mouth and push him against the fridge and close the space between them. Despite everything, Harry is sort of glad Zayn doesn't, though, because he's been wanting it for so long that he'd probably come in his pants the moment their lips touched like a virginal middle schooler. Harry doesn't think he's ever wanted anyone as much as he wants Zayn, not even Megan Fox or Orlando Bloom, who he had life-sized cutouts of in his bedroom when he was thirteen. Harry wants Zayn with something different. He supposes it's because he knows they're soulmates, but if he didn't know that information he swears, he'd still want Zayn just as much. He wants Zayn wholly, entirely, consumingly. He wants every part of him. He wants his brain and the kissable tip of his nose and his thin ankles.

Harry wonders if Zayn had the same thoughts about Ilona before they started dating.

It's an awful feeling, remembering Ilona's role in the big picture. Sometimes he'll get carried away and will almost reach out to grab Zayn's hand and then a voice in his head will say _ahem, ILONA_ and he'll run back to his room and refrain from hitting himself in the head with a lamp like he’s seen happen when he used to marathon Harry Potter movies with Ilona. Sometimes he feels like he's happier at three in the morning when he's not constantly reminded of Ilona's existence, when it's just him and Zayn and two pieces of toast.

It's not just looking at Zayn, either, it's talking to him and listening to him hum under his breath and watching the expressions his face makes when he's coming up with a joke. It's learning what countries he wants to travel to and the languages he likes to hear and what songs put him to sleep. It's the jump of his stomach when he hears Zayn ambling out of his room in the early hours of the day reserved for them and the way his bones vibrate when he makes Zayn laugh.

It's that Zayn makes his heart stutter and his breath catch and helps Harry find parts of himself that he didn't know were there. Last week, Zayn convinced him to put a chunk of wasabi on his sushi when they went out for lunch together, something that Harry wouldn't have even thought about doing before. Zayn also has recommended his entire supply of books for the year, embarrassingly easily convincing Harry. Harry's never been one to spend hours at an art museum, either, but Zayn shows him his favorite pieces and he wants to stare at them for days on end.

He thinks that maybe, _maybe_ , he can tell Ilona about his circumstance, about how Zayn is his soulmate and his ticket to a longer life.

That plan implodes when Harry and Ilona have dinner a week later. Harry's made quinoa pasta with a special sauce that he admits he made a tad too spicy because of Zayn's influence and he's in the middle of pouring it over the pasta when Ilona's phone dings and she promptly throws herself onto the couch with a groan.

"What? What? Who died?" Harry inquires.

"My dignity," she responds. "I love Zayn so much, Harry."

Harry doesn't respond, too surprised. He knows it, obviously, but—

"I don't know what I'm gonna do. He's so sweet. He just sent me a text saying," she makes her voice lower, "Happy Tuesday, babe. Just saw a sports car that reminded me of you because it was the most suave car on the street. Love you, can't wait to see you. Don't miss me too much." She finishes and groans again, covering her face with a pillow. Harry laughs, desperately trying to hide his shaking hands, which have begun to tremble so violently that he spills the pasta sauce all over the counter. His heart is suddenly racing and he can't feel his cheeks as he smiles harder than he's ever seen himself do genuinely.

"That's adorable," he agrees easily.

"I want him to propose. No, that's stupid. We're too young, God. Can you give him a hint? Tell him to propose in like five years."

Harry will do no such thing because he'll be long dead.

"Don't think I have to tell him," he says instead.

"Ugh," she whines again. "My heart."

Her heart soars, Harry's sure, but his splits cleanly in two.

 

***

 

Harry makes the calculated decision to break his routine with Zayn that night. He wakes up at three but pointedly stays in bed. Zayn doesn't take the hint because a few minutes later he knocks on Harry's door and then comes in and shakes Harry's shoulders. Harry doesn't move and wills his breath to even out, eyes closed. But Zayn pushes his hair out of his face and tilts his chin up gently so he can make sure he's sleeping and then murmurs, "Alright then, if this is how it's gonna be."

 

 

***

 

Going to class has become painfully awkward because he used to sit next to Jack, but then he invited Jack to his best friend's boyfriend's birthday event and told him to go home shortly after and proceeded to avoid any contact with him after that. Maybe Jack wasn't being himself that night, or maybe he was just spectacularly drunk because he leaves Harry notes everyday and they're almost too cute for even Harry.

 _Hey,_ today's says. _I just wanted to say again how unbelievably sorry I am for the other night. That wasn't like me. Please give me another chance? P.S. you look good today. You did yesterday and the day before that and the day before that._

Harry's a sucker for second chances so he finds Jack when class is over.

"Hey," he says when he reaches him, hand on his shoulder.

Jack jumps. "Oh. Hi."

"Wanna come back to mine?" Harry finally asks after a few seconds of silence and Jack sighs in relief, nodding eagerly.

 

***

 

When they get to the apartment, neither Ilona nor Zayn is there, which Harry figures is a plus. They sit on the couch and make small talk for around an hour. Jack's taste in music is different from Harry's—he enjoys jazz, which Harry thinks makes him sound like an upper class jerk, but what can he do. Jack acts upperclass in every other aspect, too, Harry comes to realize. He thinks he'll start the next Facebook and become a millionaire before he turns thirty. He also refuses to drink Harry's water because it's not Fiji, which Harry thinks is his loss because _please,_ all water is the same. Overall, Harry doesn't hate him, though. He figures he could do with someone like Jack in his life.

Zayn texts him asking if he can come over for dinner and Harry obviously texts back, _of course_ , unsure why Zayn even asked. Zayn texts back _great_ and that he'll bring frozen lasagna.

When Zayn arrives, bag in hand, his entire face hardens the moment he sees Jack. Harry can't blame him. Zayn gives him a tight smile and puts the frozen lasagna down on the counter.

"Didn't know we were having a guest over," he says stiffly.

"Well," Harry responds. Zayn is being very caustic. "You're a guest."

Zayn's falters, searching for an appropriate response before giving up and saying, "I'm gonna change," and walking into Ilona's room. Harry excuses himself follows him because he can take a hint.

"What are you doing?" Zayn asks once the door is shut and they're alone.

"What are _you_ doing?"

Zayn frowns. "Why is he here?"

"I invited him over."

"My confusion comes from why the hell you would do that, Harry."

"He's nice," Harry argues.

"Clearly. He made you hide on my birthday and I had to tell him to leave."

"He was very drunk that night. He's not usually like that. He's been sending me sweet notes."

Zayn flails. "You think he deserves you because he's been writing you notes like a ninth grader?" The question of _deserve_ wasn't mentioned before and Harry falters.

"He deserves another chance."

Zayn sighs and says, "Whatever you say, Harry," angrily and proceeds towards the door but then breaks under his own intensity and turns around before he reaches it. "God, Harry. Don't be with him. Be with someone who deserves you. Someone you actually like." 

"I'm fine, thanks," He ends up snapping.

Zayn says, "What?" But Harry walks out of the room before he can ask anything else, heart in his throat and dignity spilled on the floor beneath him.

Ilona comes home and they prepare the lasagna and eat it over an awkward silence at the too-small table and then instead of helping with the dishes Harry walks Jack to the door and kisses him against it. He thinks he'd never like to see him again but he probably will end up spending more time with him than is necessary.

 

***

 

Harry's life gets suddenly very busy, with the last week of the semester and going to club meetings and seeing Jack. He spends more time away from home than he has in a while, and his only time with Ilona is the quiet hour after dinner when they sit down together and watch old reruns of _I Love Lucy_ \- the worst, most racist, most sexist show ever - like they promised each other they would. They both hate it. Harry can't even understand why they keep watching it but he doesn't want to stop. Their commentary is politically correct and delightful.

He also doesn't sacrifice his soft hours of the morning with Zayn either, somehow unable to, and finds himself looking forward to them more than anything else.

"Hi," he mutters that night at twenty minutes after three.

"Hey," Zayn replies, clearly relieved. "Didn't know if I'd see you tonight."

"Why?"

"Dunno. You seemed mad at dinner."

"I wasn't," Harry points out, remorseful that Zayn would think that. He wishes Zayn would talk some more about Jack, about why Harry shouldn't give him a chance, but he seems to have given up on that front. Sometimes Harry thinks Zayn doesn't like him at all, wishing for _any_ sign of progress, even as small as a tint of red on Zayn's cheeks.

Tonight doesn't seem like progress, though. Zayn keeps his distance and makes guarded eye contact, laughing when it's appropriate and smiling when it's appropriate.

When Harry finishes his toast, he announces that he's gonna go sleep.

Zayn says, "Okay," and Harry waits a beat before turning and walking. 

"Harry, wait," Zayn says before he reaches his door and when Harry turns around Zayn's right there. "About what I said earlier.  About you being with someone better than Jack."

"Yeah," 

"Listen..."

Harry waits, but Zayn doesn't say anything. Instead, he steps closer and kisses him, hands clenching the material of Harry's tshirt. 

Harry doesn't know what to do.  He's torn between throwing his arms around Zayn or leaving them limp at his sides, but before he can decide, Zayn pulls away.  

"Um," he says, looking disoriented. "Goodnight, Harry."

"Yeah," Harry replies.

 

***

 

Harry goes home for the summer while Zayn and Ilona stay in New York. He manages to avoid any confrontation from Zoe for leaving the city that Zayn is in for months at a time, although he thinks she's giving him a break for finally kissing Zayn.  Not that he can figure out if the kiss counted towards any progress, since neither of them will acknowledge it.

Truthfully, he misses his mom too much and he can't bring himself to care about anything else. He doesn't even want to think about anything else. He's missed her cooking and her obsessive cleaning and her yelling in the morning when he wakes up at eleven and she tells him he's wasted half the day.

He goes to the gym and eats expensive, organic foods and reads ten books in two months. He also spends quality time tanning in his backyard under an intense sun that New Yorkers rarely see. Ilona calls him a few times a month to tell him about cool new things and places she's found, or to ask where he left the peeler, and even to say hi to Anne. Zayn sends a picture captioned _I Can't Believe It's Not Couture_ of himself in a fitting room mirror wearing a pair of ripped black jeans exposing more thigh than Harry thinks he's ever seen on him. He follows it up with _what do you think? yes? no?_. Harry stares at the picture for five minutes, almost makes it his lock screen, but then tells himself to get a grip and responds _yes!!!!!!!!!!_

On the last day of July, Zayn sends another text saying _when are you coming backkkkk_. Harry replies _aug 25_ , two days before the semester starts and Zayn sends back a frowny face.

Zayn actually calls him on FaceTime a few days later, to Harry's surprise. He's lying on his bed in his pajamas when he does, reading _The Importance of Being Earnest_.

"Hi," he says when he answers. Zayn's face is close to the camera and he's smiling widely. The angle is weird and he's moving.

"Hey," he responds at last. "I was hungry but I didn't want to have a snack without you." Harry's heart aches something painful.

"Oh."

"Yeah. Anyway, here I am."

"Why are you in your apartment?"

"I dunno. Wanted to see Lou. Plus I felt like I needed some space, to be healthy. You know?"

Harry doesn't but he says, "Yeah" anyway. The camera moves back and Harry notices for the first time that Zayn is shirtless. He thinks that's a little rude, considering.

"Anyway, I wanted to show you what an organized fridge looks like," Zayn says, switching the camera and showing Harry the inside of his refrigerator. "Notice how nothing is expired. Unlike some fridges." He coughs exaggeratedly.

"Shut up. I don't see your point, your fridge is empty. There's like one bottle of vodka and a tub of spread and, what's that in the drawer? Cheese?"

Zayn flips the camera again and brings it close to his face, smiling wickedly. "All I need." He finally sets down the phone against something and steps into the frame in all of his shirtless glory as he pops a piece of bread into the toaster.

"So," Zayn says as he grabs a stool and sits on it. "How's the mom?"

"Good. She and Robin have work so I'm basically home alone. I wish I had a car so I could go places, but I'm stuck babysitting my neighbors instead."

"Really? How's that?"

"God, I can’t do it. All they want to do is watch _Freaky Friday_. It's like, they come over and we watch and it finishes and I'm like, 'Okay, wanna play a game now?' And they're like, 'No, _Freaky Friday_!' It's dreadful. We watched it three times today."

Zayn laughs loudly. "I don't know what you're complaining about. Jamie Lee Curtis deserves an Oscar for that performance. I'm actually gonna put it on right now." He moves as if he's going to his room to get his laptop but Harry says, "No! You're ruining my _life_."

Zayn grins and then his toast pops up and he puts it on a plate, already spreading a knife full of spread on it.

"It's an inspiring movie." He continues, starting to laugh again. He clutches his stomach as his head falls back.

"It's really not! Jamie Lee Curtis is amazing but Lindsay Lohan's hair—those highlights that didn't match her actual hair color. God, they were terrible. I can't believe the early two thousands happened."

"Hey! I dated a girl with crazy highlights in the fifth grade."

"Shut up! Ilona had terrible highlights when she was in fourth grade. They looked so bad. The worst part is that I helped her put them there."

"You're a terrible friend," Zayn chuckles.

"I know."

"Yeah, they did look particularly bad on Lindsay Lohan. But her acting was good, right?"

"No."

Zayn sighs in acceptance. "I know. What other movies was she in?"

Harry thinks about it. "I don't even know, Jesus. How was she such a pivotal person in my childhood if I don't even know what movies she was in? Hold on, I'll look it up." He clicks out of the FaceTime call and searches Lindsay Lohan's movie history. He slaps a hand over his mouth. " _Mean Girls_."

"Hmm?" Zayn says and Harry clicks back into the call. Zayn's washing his plate in the sink, face turned away from the camera and the curve of his back looks so lovely that Harry doesn't want to repeat himself and ruin the moment. He wants to take a screenshot but thinks better of it. 

" _Mean Girls_ ," he repeats, heart skipping a beat.

"Oh shit. Did we seriously just forget that movie?" Zayn asks when he turns back to him.

Harry shakes his head. "I won't tell if you won't."

"Bless you" Zayn grins.

"And _The Parent Trap_."

"I still don't know how they filmed that."

"Nothing short of magic."

Harry sighs and shifts onto his side and then Zayn says, "Wait. Turn on the light?" So he does and Zayn says, "Ha! Nice teal bedspread."

"Shut up," Harry grumbles. "I wanted my room to look like the ocean."

Zayn starts giggling mercilessly and says, "Are you serious? That's so funny. I wanted my room to look like an inferno. Literally everything in my childhood room is either red or black. Save for superhero posters. I hated myself."

"God, so you've been fucked up your whole life," Harry teases and Zayn rolls his eyes.

"Okay, Poseidon," Zayn responds. Harry scoffs.

"Anyway, I need to go take a shower."

"Okay."

"I'm gonna hang up now."

"What?" Zayn looks alarmed to say the least. "Why?"

"I need to take a shower."

"Well go take one then. Just keep me on the line."

"Oh," Harry falters. "Okay, I guess. I'll be back."

"What? You're leaving me here on your bed to stare at your ceiling fan? At least take me to the bathroom so we can sing a duet together or something." Harry laughs out loud and agrees before he can talk himself out of it. He carefully places Zayn by the sink as he strips and turns on the water and steps into the shower, about to put his head under the faucet when he hears Zayn shout his name.

"What? What?" He says worriedly and steps out to grab his phone and take a look at Zayn's burglar. Nothing seems wrong, though and Zayn's just smiling at him.

"What happened?" Harry asks again, water dripping onto the floor.

"Nothing, I just wanted to see you shirtless." Harry rolls his eyes.

"You've seen me shirtless."

"I haven't. You're very reserved."

"No, I'm sure you have. All my friends have seen me shirtless. I'm shirtless most of the time at home."

Zayn presses a hand to his chest and makes an expression probably sadder than he intended. "Ouch."

"You're stupid. I just got out of the shower for you. I hope you at least like what you see."

Zayn wiggles his eyebrows enthusiastically and Harry steps back into the shower to wash away the red that must be staining his cheeks.

When he finishes showering, Zayn's asleep.

 

***

 

By the time summer's over, he's caught up with most of his high school friends. He doesn't get to see Clara, because she's moved to London to pursue a career in Being Richer Than All Her Friends. Also, Liam and Sophia have moved to Seattle together, but he called Liam and they promised to meet with each other before they're twenty-five.

When he gets to New York after a tearful departure from his mother at the airport, Ilona won't even let him into his own apartment because apparently she's remodeling it and the couch is blocking the door and she wouldn’t let him in anyway because she wants it to be a surprise, so after knocking for a few dozen minutes he gives up and goes to Zayn's. It’s midnight and he feels awful for probably waking Zayn but he really doesn’t have another option.

When Zayn opens the door he’s wearing pajama pants and his hair’s a mess, eyes nearly closed with sleep. His face lights up when he sees Harry, though, and he focuses all of his energy on hugging the life out of him.

“I missed you, Jesus. Don't leave like that again. My sleep schedule is starting to fix itself," Zayn says.

"God forbid," Harry agrees, and hugs Zayn back. Zayn turns his face so his lips are against Harry's neck and he exhales and his breath makes Harry shiver.

"What?" Harry asks.

"Just missed you." Harry feels a warmth spread through his body as he nods in agreement. Harry lets go of the handle of his carry-on and it falls to his feet with a loud _BANG_ as he wraps his other hand around Zayn, pressing them closer together and inhaling him as he feels a strange tingling in the corners of his eyes.

Zayn pulls him into the apartment when they separate and when Harry picks up his luggage off the floor and takes them straight to his bed. He throws a pair of sweatpants Harry’s way so Harry doesn’t have to dig through his suitcase and then falls backwards onto where he was laying before on the bed. Harry joins him once he’s changed and Zayn says, “I love sleeping with you.” Harry’s organs burn up and leave him a pile of ashes on Zayn’s bed.

“Me too,” he mumbles quietly a few seconds later and Zayn just sighs, already falling asleep.

 

***

 

His internal clock wakes him up at three and when he opens his eyes, Zayn’s face is closer to his than it’s probably ever been, so much so that every time Zayn exales it lands on Harry’s nose. Harry brings his hand up to cover a yawn so he doesn't accidentally ruin Zayn’s dream with his bad breath but the movement rouses Zayn from his sleep and he hums lowly, breathing becoming more inconsistent.

Zayn opens his eyes after a few moments and stares at Harry, not moving. “Hey,” he says, lips curving.

“Sorry,” Harry feels the need to say.

Zayn smiles at him, so sweet. “For what?” His eyes shift to look at the clock behind Harry. “Are you hungry?” He asks, voice coming out a slow, sleepy rasp, eyes concerned and caring.

Harry shakes his head.

“Me neither.” A moment passes and Zayn looks down at the space between them and notes, “Hey, you’re shirtless.”

Harry huffs out a quiet laugh and says, “Yeah.”

“It’s even better in person,” says Zayn, the national charmer.

He looks back up at Harry’s eyes and lets the seconds pass as he doesn’t move and doesn’t speak and just stares. He blinks slowly, like syrup is keeping his eyelids together but he wants to keep them apart so he won’t break this moment with Harry. His gaze darts up to where Harry’s hair is falling over his forehead and he murmurs, “You need a haircut.”

Harry says, “I know,” and Zayn reaches up to push some of his hair away from his face. After he does, he doesn’t retract his hand but instead puts it on the back of Harry’s neck. He looks exhausted, body sagging into the mattress as he struggles to keep his eyes open.

Zayn keeps staring at him, though, unmoving. The silence between them is deafening, only slightly quieted by the loud beating of Harry's heart. “Come here,” he finally says, barely louder than a whisper.

“Okay,” Harry agrees and scoots closer. Zayn draws him in and closes the space between them with a gentle kiss, softer than Harry’s ever felt before. Harry doesn’t move—scared he’ll wake up from whatever pleasant dream he’s having, but Zayn tangles their legs together as his breathing slows down again and his other hand finds Harry’s chest, palm pressed to it. He kisses Harry slowly, with sweet lips, until he can’t. They fall asleep with their lips still touching even though they’re not kissing anymore.

 

***

 

When Harry wakes up for the second time Zayn’s already awake, watching _Tom and Jerry_ reruns on the couch with a bowl of Coco Puffs in his lap. When he sees Harry he smiles and pats the space next to him. 

Harry’s not sure if last night actually happened or if it was a dream so he sits down next to him.  Apparently it really did happen, because as soon as he does, Zayn pulls his hand into his lap to play with. He smiles at Harry again.  

"Are cartoons okay?"

"Yeah, of course," Harry responds, confused.  Why is Zayn so happy?  He just cheated on his girlfriend...

Harry pulls his hand out of Zayn's lap, remembering bitterly that he helped him cheat and they're both horrible people who should have waited until Ilona was out of the picture. But Zayn turns to look at him with a frown. 

"What's wrong, babe?"  _Babe._

Harry can't believe his ears. "Nothing, just. I don't know. I feel weird."

Zayn looks at him.  "You've spoken to Ilona over the summer, right?"

"Course, yeah."

Zayn's face seems to fall. "Oh, okay...then why—"

Harry doesn't want to talk about them or her anymore. "Let's go out. I've missed the city."

Zayn smiles at him, but it doesn't seem to reach his eyes.  

***

 

They go to Central Park to enjoy the last few hours of the summer sun before the school year officially starts, sharing a packet of glazed nuts from a street vendor on the way there. Their fingers occasionally get stuck and they walk too closely to each other, but Harry wouldn't have it any other way. It’s a cliché within a cliché but they have a good time all the same. A girl walking with her dad passes them and mumbles, “See? Two boys in a relationship is just as cute...", which makes Harry blush and step away. When he glances at Zayn, he finds he's staring sadly at the space between them. 

After another hour of idle strolling, Zayn stops Harry and steps in front of him so they're looking directly at each other. 

"Listen," he says, and Harry waits. He looks down kicks at the sidewalk awkwardly. "I don't know if I wasn't being obvious enough, or if I was but you just don't feel the same way, but. When I'm with you I feel...."

He looks up at Harry with big, clear eyes. "I really like you, Harry. Like, _really_ like you. And I thought you did too, which is why I wanted to properly try this out. But you're acting strangely."

Harry's eyes are wide.  Somewhere Zoe is sighing in relief. " _Properly_  try this out?  Zayn...obviously my answer is no.  There's nothing proper about this."

"Was I wrong to think you liked me?" Zayn looks down and flushes, clearly mortified. "God, I'm so embarrassed."

"No, that's not it," Harry says, stepping forward. "I'm crazy about you, trust me." 

Zayn frowns. "Is this because of Ilona, then?"

"Obviously this is because of Ilona!" Harry all but shouts. He doesn't want to help cheat on his best friend. 

"I don't know what more I can do," Zayn says sadly. 

Harry shakes his head, frowning at the ground. He doesn't understand what Zayn can't get about his reluctance.  Why can't he just break up with Ilona first?

Instead of voicing these thoughts, he says, “I should go back and make sure Ilona hasn’t destroyed the place.”

Zayn nods and says, “Yeah, I should go too. Already have assignments to do for my first class.”

“You don’t want to come and have lunch with us?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Have a lot of stuff to do." He says as he checks his watch, gives Harry one last smile, and walks in the opposite direction.

 

***

 

When Harry gets home, Ilona is still remodeling and he has to _beg_ her to let him in. She finally does and when he walks in, nothing has changed places except for the couch, which is now a foot away from the tv and covered in blankets and tissues. Ilona looks exhausted and she definitely needs a shower. Her nostrils are red from too much rubbing, Harry notices.

“Hey,” he walks to her and puts his hands on her shoulders. “What’s wrong?” Whatever it is can’t be good. She looks up at him with glossy eyes, but she looks more annoyed than sad. “Weren’t you just with Zayn?”

“Yeah, but he said he had work to do for class. Do you want me to call him over?”

“No, don’t–” Ilona starts and then huffs, blinking rapidly so she doesn’t start crying. “Didn’t he tell you?  He fucking broke up with me.”


	3. 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He circles it with highlighter three times instead, hoping that Zayn will get the message that they’re soulmates and that it’s written on every surface and in the center of every star. That the hands of every clock resound it with every _tick_ and that it echoes off of every drip of every leaky kitchen faucet. That Harry knows it and that Death herself knows it and that Zayn knows it too - he just doesn’t _know _he knows it.__
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> __It’s complicated_ , he wants to write next to it but he doesn’t. It’s not complicated. It’s fairly simple. They’re meant to be together. It’s written his life line. He can’t die without it. They just can’t, yet._  
> 

**20**

 

Harry doesn't know what to say - so stunned that for a moment he can't say anything even if when he tries to.  He all but slapped his hand over his forehead when he first heard it, grimacing at his stupidity. Fuck. 

_Fuck._

He's an idiot.  Zayn had broken up with Ilona and assumed she'd told Harry.  He wanted to be with Harry,  _properly._

"Broke up with you," he finally manages.

Ilona nods.

"Why?"

"I don't know. He said we were moving really fast and that he needed some time to think. Needed a break.” She looks so lost, so vulnerable. "God, I want him back.  Please Harry, fix this."

Harry doesn't know what to do.  But somehow, he finds himself hugging her and saying  _okay_. 

 

***

 

He calls Zayn later when she’s asleep and asks him what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

“What do you mean, Harry?”

"Why'd you break up with my best friend?"

The line is silent. Then, "Because I fucking wanted to be with you, Harry." 

Harry's lip trembles. He doesn't know if he should tell Zayn that he didn't know they were broken up when Zayn tried to be with him, or if he should help out his best friend.. "Well she wants to be with you, and I know you must still have feelings for her, so."

"Harry," Zayn sighs on the line. “I don’t know what to say.”

"What does that even _mean_ , Zayn?"

“I don’t know. What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me why you’re being an asshole.”

He doesn’t respond and Harry listens while Zayn’s breaths fill the line. “I thought…”

“What?” Harry’s heart thumps painfully in his chest, more so with each beat. He squeezes the phone closer to his ear, anxiously waiting for Zayn's response. He feels terrified all of a sudden, logically so.

“I don’t know,” Zayn finally replies and calms his nerves.

“You clearly love her.”  Harry can't stop fighting against his cause, it seems.  He wills one last time for Zayn to refuse and beg Harry to be with him. 

Zayn doesn’t speak for another moment and then says, quietly, “Yeah.”

Hearing him say it makes Harry want to go back to his seventeenth birthday, when he first met Zayn and almost asked for his number but didn’t.

“Then come and fucking fix things.” He doesn’t wait for Zayn to reply, just hangs up the phone and rolls over on his bed so his face is smothered by his pillow.

 

***

 

Zayn, the sweetest person in the world, brings Ilona an entire cake the next day as an apology. He says that he wasn’t thinking and that he was having a midlife crisis and that he’s the dumbest person in the world. Ilona looks so relieved that she grabs Zayn’s face and kisses the breath right out of his mouth. Harry, for the life of him, doesn’t know why they have to do all of this in front of him—he was just getting a glass of orange juice when Zayn came in and couldn’t keep his soap opera scene to himself for one minute longer.

Harry scoffs and retreats to his room to sulk and binge watch _Grey’s Anatomy_ because his actual life isn’t sad enough, apparently. He doesn’t lock his door because he figures it would be rude, but that backfires when Zayn comes an hour later in after knocking quietly. Harry thinks about legitimately feigning death for a minute but that probably would hit too close to home, considering, so he just stays in his spot and lowers his laptop from in front of his face.

Zayn stands by the door for a few awkward moments and then finally says, “Thanks for, like. Saving my relationship.”

“Yeah.”

Zayn stares at him for a moment and then nods, turning around and walking out, the air in the room suddenly too awkward.

 

***

 

The next time Zoe visits, it’s not a scolding but an omen.

“Harry.” She says.

“Satan,” he responds.

She doesn’t flinch.

“I can’t kill you but I can get pretty damn close.”

“Please don’t,” he says but finds he doesn't really care either way.

“Harry. What did you just do? Why are you so far away after you got so close?”

He thrusts his face into his hands and says, “I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know, _I don’t know_. I can’t do it. They’re so happy together.”

“This is not a joke, Harry,” she says and then she’s gone, vanished into the air as if she’d never been there.

Harry leaves his room and gets a glass of water but his hands shake so hard that he drops the glass and it shatters on the floor. He sinks down to pick up the pieces but Ilona runs into the kitchen and knocks into him abruptly and he falls forward, hand coming out to catch his fall but landing on a shard of glass. It bleeds tremendously, Harry swearing that he needs to go to the emergency room but Ilona and her nursing major assure him that it’s fine even if he doesn’t feel like it is.

When she helps him stand up, his head knocks into the edge of the cabinet and he’s sure it’ll leave a bump. Ilona tries to soothe him by patting the hair around it but she ends up nearly poking his eye out and by the end of the affair, Harry’s so exhausted that he doesn’t even let Ilona wrap the cut on his hand a second time, just takes what she’s done so far and retreats to bed.

At least he knows what Zoe meant.

 

***

 

For reasons unknown to man, Harry calls Jack.

They haven't seen each other outside of class in a few weeks, so it’s awkward at first but they get into their usual swing when Jack asks Harry if he wants to grab lunch one day. Lunch one day turns into lunch every day turns into Jack taking Harry home and pushing him into the door of his apartment and shoving his leg between Harry’s fiercely.

“You good to fuck?” Jack says roughly, a week after their first lunch date.

 _Probably not._ “Yes.” _Actually, definitely not._

Jack nods against Harry’s neck, biting and sucking and leaving unnecessary marks. Harry feels like a slab of meat at one of Jack’s parents’ fancy barbecues for rich people who bought _Apple_ shares before its first product was released.

Everything Jack does is so rough, so viciously executed and intentionally painful that Harry wonders if Jack tells people that he’s straight outside of their twenty minute dates, or if he has something stupidly masculine like a _man cave_.

He probably does, is the thing. He probably does tell people he’s straight and he probably plays rugby with his friends and drinks beer in his man cave and jumps at the idea of male dancers but Harry realizes with a sad shrug that he doesn’t care. Jack is nice to him and he looks like he might very possibly own a yacht in the near future even if he wouldn’t be able to manage it because he has Harry take care of the slightest things for him.

Jack bites at Harry’s neck, which Harry thinks is rather unnecessary, and grunts, “Bed,” and Harry nods dumbly, a voice in his head saying _this is it_ pathetically.

This _is_ it.

Jack tries to open Harry up with gentle fingers but he’s obviously so impatient that Harry finally huffs and tells him to get on with it after a minute or two. It hurts more than he thought it would—in fact so much that he thinks he’s about to start crying but that’ll ruin the mood and he can’t have that happen during his first time. He wonders if it’s Jack’s first time with a guy too or if he does this frequently.

Jack enters him in one swift motion, clutching the pillow by Harry’s head as he presses his cheek to Harry’s back and grunts over and over again. Harry squeezes his eyes shut and reaches behind him, searching for any sign of emotion, but when Jack grabs his hand, it feels cold and clammy.

 

***

 

When Harry finally decides to go home, it’s just after midnight. He has nothing against Jack’s apartment, but his bed feels too soft and too luxurious and too much of everything that Harry doesn’t want, so he makes up an excuse about Ilona needing urgent help and calls a taxi because he feels too useless to walk to the metro. The twenty dollars he’s charged puts a dent in his wallet big enough to cost him three days worth of food, but he doesn’t mind.

His tiny apartment, despite its creaks and mismatched colors and likely hauntings, suddenly feels like a safe haven as he shuts his eyes and drops his head against the headrest in front of him, dehydrated and starving out of nowhere. He has homework to do for tomorrow and he hasn’t called his mom all day and he feels like the bruises on his neck are so obvious that they, by any other person, would be mistaken for dog bites.

When he arrives, he’s so relieved he almost forgets to pay the driver but is kindly reminded with a honk and a gruff shout.

“Hello,” he says to no one when he climbs the three flights of stairs and opens his door.

“I’ve missed you,” he says to his bed. He steps on a plug on the way to it and nearly loses his head trying not to shout, remembering that Death is a bitch.

 

***

 

He watches Zayn's face the next morning as Zayn looks at him while they eat breakfast. He looks at Harry's eyes, first, with a small smile, then his hair and his pajama bottoms, and then finally at his neck, which, despite being covered with an unattractive scarf, still looks attacked and he makes a very sick expression. Harry's almost sure he's going to throw up. He averts his gaze as soon as he sees.

"Big night?" Zayn says at last.

Harry raises his eyebrows.

"Jack?"

Harry shifts uncomfortably and adjusts his scarf instead of answering immediately. "Jack indeed," he finally confirms and Zayn huffs at his choice of words.

"Lucky man," Zayn grins. Harry doesn't know whether he's talking about Jack or him.

He laughs anyway. He feels like this can work, like he and Zayn can talk about sex casually without the usual knot in his stomach. He doesn't need that kind of negativity anyway because Zoe's out to get him either way. She makes sure to remind him by making him choke on a piece of cereal.

"Okay," Harry says after hacking up a lung, to Zayn's alarm. "I should go. I'm meeting Jack for coffee first."

Zayn’s mouth twitches and his eyes shine with something that Harry wishes he could understand. “Okay.” Then, “See you after?”

“No; I’m studying for a test with Jack after.”

Zayn’s face falls until he blinks away any sign of emotion and says, “Oh. Cool. See you...when I do, then.”

“It’s not like you don’t live here, Zayn. I’ll probably see you tonight for toast.” Harry lies, so casually bringing up their long dormant routine that he wants to punch himself. Zayn smiles, though. "Okay, yeah,” and, “Good luck on that test!”

 

***

 

When Harry gets to the Starbucks on Broadway, Jack's standing there waiting, holding two cups of coffee. He remembered what Harry wanted and it makes Harry's stomach leap with hope.

"Hey," he says when he takes his coffee.

Jack leans in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. Harry wonders if Zoe sees because the moment he does, he feels weaker than he has in years. "Hi, you. Ready to go?" Jack says.

Harry nods, smiling and letting Jack take his hand.

“So. Are we studying at your place tonight?”

Jack shakes his head. “Too messy, and I only want you to see the best. I was thinking we could camp out at the library. Snacks and netflix breaks included.”

“Okay, that sounds great.”

“Perfect.” Jack kisses his cheek again as they walk towards their school.

 

***

 

It’s a brutal study session, but it pays off, even if Jack can’t stop kissing Harry every time he finishes reading a section. The test they’re studying for is over a chapter called _Controlling The Management Process_ , but their efforts seem useless because Jack can’t seem to manage himself enough to keep his dick in his pants, pulling Harry away into a deserted corner every half hour to kiss and rub against each other aimlessly. Even with the constant distractions, they manage to learn the chapter and make some of the best grades in the class. Sometimes Harry forgets he’s at an ivy league because he makes ends meet and keeps up a good GPA regardless of the fierce, relentless competition, but Jack reminds him when they get their tests back by whooping and proposing they go out for drinks.

“I’m underage,” Harry reminds him sulkily.

“Not for a bar, you’re not, babe. Plus, you look old enough.”

He’s right - they walk to a bar a half-hour away and get in easily because Jack looks like he’s in his mid thirties (cocaine, Harry suspects) and because Harry doesn’t look too young any more, having finally properly grown into his skin. Jack orders two jack and cokes and the bartender doesn’t even eye Harry, let alone card him, much to his surprise.

Harry thinks about making a _Jack_ joke, but he fears it’ll go unappreciated so he decided against it, wishing faintly that he were with someone who _would_ value his humor. Zayn, maybe. Or Ilona or Nick or Caroline or one of his other many friends, obviously.

“You okay?” Jack asks, noting Harry’s lack of expression.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Was just thinking.”

“Now’s not the time for that, babe,” Jack says with mischief in his eyes as he beckons for Harry to drink his jack and coke. He does, and far too quickly, at that. Jack doesn’t stop him, though, and orders him four shots afterwards.

“Oh,” Harry starts to say, trying and failing to come up with an excuse to not drink. “Okay.” He drinks.

 

***

 

“You okay?” The bartender asks once she notices that Harry’s been resting his entire body weight on Jack. They’ve been there for hours now, talking to another pair from Tisch grad school: Jane and Ashley, best friends going on lovers. At least Harry thinks so.

“Mm,” he truthfully replies.

“He’s fine,” Jack assures and then Ashley says, “Is he?”

Harry shakes his head. He feels like he’s three years old and having his first stomach virus. He might throw up. Jack obviously sees it in his face because he asks, “Harry, seriously. Are you okay? Are you feeling nauseous?”

“Just a bit. I think I should go.” He moves to stand up but somehow his knees give out and his ankles liquefy and he’s leaning on Jack again, who steadies him with hands to his waist. It doesn’t feel comforting in the slightest. “Okay. Sorry. Leaving now,” he says into Jack’s shoulder as he guides them outside of the bar.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll help you get a cab.”

Harry snorts. “Thanks, but I’m taking the subway.”

Jack looks appalled, but he stands up and walks Harry out of the bar anyway. He raises his arm to call a cab and when Harry tries to swat it down, he says, “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll pay.”

“No.”

“I want you to get home safely.”

Harry physically deflates, chest warm as he says, “Fine” and tries his hardest not to slur.

When a taxi finally pulls up, Jack, as promised, gives the driver a fresh twenty dollar bill - one of many that he has lying around in his pockets - and kisses Harry sloppily against the door before he lets him go.

“See you soon,” he says. “Dream of me.” It makes Harry feel more nauseous.

 

***

 

When he gets home, it’s just after one and he’s so drunk that he nearly runs into the front door. He manages to unlock it with his eyes closed, sleep dripping from his body and onto the floor with each step as he finally makes it to his bed and tries not to vomit onto the white sheets. Thankfully, he doesn’t. He comes close though when he lies down on his bed and the last thought that comes to him before sleep is Jack saying _dream of me_.

 

***

 

He’s woken up an hour later when something makes his side of his bed dip.

“Sorry,” Zayn whispers. “I couldn’t wait. I know it’s only two-thirty but I brought the food here to make up for it.” Harry opens his eyes, immediately feeling dizzy, but true to his word, Zayn’s holding a plate with two pieces of toast and a container of spread under his other arm. Harry wants to cry.

“You’re so nice to me,” he tells Zayn finally after a minute of rubbing his eyes.

Zayn smiles sadly. "Well. You're my best friend, probably."

When Harry doesn't reply, he says,"How did your test go?"

"So well. I made one of the highest scores so Jack and I celebrated at a bar."

"At a bar?"

"At a bar."

"And you had a lot to drink?"

"I think so. I can't remember much of it. We met these girls named Jane and something and they were pretty funny except they both looked the exact same. I thought they were dating at the time but now I realize they might have been twins. I don't know. I'm still drunk."

"Yeah," Zayn says softly. "You good to eat?"

"Yes. Definitely. I haven't had anything since breakfast."

"Jack didn't take you to lunch? Or dinner?"

"No," Harry says sadly and closes his eyes again. He wants to wrap himself around Zayn and keep him in his bed until the sun expands enough to end life as they know it.

"Well, here. You can have both."

Harry groans, squeezing his eyes more tightly shut. "Why are you so nice to me?"

“Because I want to inherit all your clothes when you die,” Zayn jokes and it makes Harry look up so suddenly that he nearly gives himself whiplash. _He knows._

“Sorry. Kidding,” Zayn says, clearly mistaking Harry’s concern for disgust. _He doesn’t know_.

“Ha,” Harry finally manages, relieved. “Good one.”

Zayn exhales, clearly just as relieved. “Eat.” He puts the plate of toast onto Harry’s lap and dips the knife into the spread for him. Harry smiles up at him, so grateful, scooting over in his bed and beckoning for Zayn to sit next to him. He still feels dizzy and gross and probably reeks of jack and vodka and _Jack_ but Zayn’s warm body next to his is comforting enough to make him sigh.

“So good,” he says, mouth full, after a couple of bites.

“Probably because you haven’t had it in three years,” Zayn chuckles.

Harry snorts and nearly inhales bread crumbs. “Stop. It’s been three months at most. I’ve been busy.”

Zayn shakes his head, speaking in a serious tone. “I don’t know what you mean. There’s no excuse for abandoning midnight snacking for three months.”

Harry laughs, falling back onto the mattress when he finishes his second piece of toast.

“Thanks,” he says quietly. “You’re the best.”

“Clearly,” Zayn says, turning on his side to look at Harry now that they’re both lying down. He smiles sweetly and Harry can feel his heart beating in his stomach. They haven’t spoken like this in what feels like years. What used to be hours of whispering in the early hours of the morning and gentle nudges somehow turned into short greetings and awkward smiles and Harry doesn’t know what to do.

"Have some," Harry waves some toast in front of Zayn's mouth. "It's too much for me."

He rolls his eyes but after a moment of hesitation takes a bite out of Harry's hand. 

"Wait, don't move," Harry says then reaches up to wipe away a thumb on the corner of Zayn's mouth. When he realizes what he's doing he jerks back.

"You can't do that anymore," Zayn says quietly, something cold in his demeanor. 

"Do what?"

" _That_. Feed me and fucking take care of crumbs for me. _You_ were the one who didn't want to be with  _me_ , Harry.  Don't drag me along like a fool. I'm trying to be your friend."

"I wasn't doing anything. I'm trying to be _your_ friend, Zayn."

Zayn looks at him, but apparently can't help himself and throws his arms up suddenly. "But  _why_ , Harry? You said you had feelings for me, you  _said_ —"

Harry can't take it anymore. "I didn't know you'd ended things with Ilona over the summer.  I thought you were still together. So I thought you just wanted me on the side.  I thought that was what you were proposing, that day."

He looks up and Zayn's staring sadly at him. "Well. Now we are together. So it's—"

"Too late, I know," Harry finishes. "I know." 

"Yeah." Zayn says shortly and walks out of the room.

 

***

 

Thanksgiving passes with a burnt turkey and radioactive gravy and before they know it, Christmas is rolling around and it's time to go back home. Harry's more broke than he's ever been so he doesn't know what to do about gifts - especially his mom's. Jack bought him a pineapple-patterned Saint Laurent button down shirt which not only did he not know what to do with, but also didn't even know where to put due to dwindling closet space. Jack also managed to invite himself to Harry's last night in New York before going back home so Harry had no choice but to put it on. He found he didn't hate it.

Zayn eyes him hesitantly wearing the designer shirt when he comes out of his room but Jack loves it, leaning into Harry and biting his ear. Ilona bought alcohol-free eggnog, or "fucking disgusting egg smoothie" as Zayn calls it, and adds some of the rum she took from the last house party she went to. It makes Zayn like it all of a sudden and he ends up drinking most of it, much to Harry's contentment. Zayn called his mom and asked her hurriedly a few hours before how to make samosas so he could contribute to the Christmas spirit in some way, even though he doesn't typically celebrate it. She spent close to an hour giving him the recipe over the phone but Zayn ended up going to Duane Reade and buying a box of microwaveable ones.

There are only a few gifts under their small, artificial tree because they told each other _no bullshit_ this year. Harry almost darts out of the room when Zayn picks up his gift from him. Shopping for Zayn's gift was the hardest one because he wanted to cave and buy him something huge, like a Pink Floyd's entire discography, but he kept hearing his clipped _yeah_  in his head and opted for getting him something meaningless. He almost bought him a snowflake mug but when he was next in line for the cash register, he realized how stupid he was being and his cheeks burned in shame as he left the mug on the shelf next to him and promptly left the store. Instead, he bought Zayn a pair of leather gloves because he figured if they seem meaningless at least they were expensive.

Zayn carefully removes the wrapping paper and grins. Harry can't tell whether or not it's genuine. "Sick," he tells Harry's guilty conscience. _Sorry I'm an idiot_ , Harry wants to say back. He just smiles and shrugs instead. "Your hands are always cold," he says.

His exchange with Ilona at least is more equal. She bought him a cookbook, "So you can make us more nutritious meals," she explains, and he in turn bought her a cashmere sweater, which makes her squeal in delight.

Harry's gift for Jack was supposed to be a blowjob but he figured in case he needed something tangible, he got him a navy scarf. Jack owns much nicer, more expensive scarves and they both know it but Jack still plasters on a smile and kisses Harry on the mouth.

Ilona and Zayn didn't know what to get Jack so they got him a last-minute box of chocolates. Jack seems more satisfied with it than he does with Harry's scarf and it makes Harry want to roll his eyes but he doesn't dare sacrifice the festive mood in the apartment.

Four different types of candles are burning when Harry finally picks up Zayn's gift. _Pumpkin Spice_ , _White Forest Breeze_ , _Crackling Fireplace_ , and _Gingerbread_. The song changes from Frank Sinatra to Ella Fitzgerald and the pause in between is quiet enough for Harry to hear the flickering of the candles. He inhales and removes the packaging as carefully as he can. When he does, his heart stops.

"I just figured you might want something, like. Ocean-themed for your room here," Zayn explains as Harry holds his breath for longer than he ever has. He fears he might be turning purple. On a miniature canvas - smaller than Harry's ever seen before - Zayn's painted him a bright orange starfish. Water is in the background in greens and blues but the starfish looks like it's attached to the canvas, like it's stuck on glass.

Harry's eyes feel oddly tingly.

"God. Thank you," he finally says. It's not nearly as nice as the jewelry he bought for Ilona but the thought behind it makes Harry's heart beat in double time. "I love it. Really."

Zayn tries his best to quell his smile but can't seem to.

 

***

 

The next morning, only Harry and Zayn are left in the apartment. Jack left last night and Ilona left early in the morning to catch her flight. Harry's flight isn't until six. It lands in Oakland, where his extended family lives, unlike Ilona's, which lands in L.A.

It's the twenty-first, a few days before actual Christmas morning but it feels like it. The air feels cleaner, somehow, crisper. Harry cracks the window open, just an inch, to let some in but it makes his room so cold that he has to close it after a few minutes. He decides to make crepes, in honor of a small Romanian woman that caught his arm when he slipped hiking in Yosemite with his mom two years ago and immersed him in conversation.

 _Two eggs, two eggs, two eggs, but what else?_ He sighs and gives up, cursing himself for only being able to remember her heavy accent, and looks up a recipe online. He'll travel to Romania one day when he's thirty and financially stable and will ask a native for her recipe, he figures.

Zayn walks out of his room when he's nearly done, dressed in just sweatpants.

"You're the best," he murmurs when he sees the pan, resting his chin on Harry's shoulder. Harry fights the urge to turn around and kiss Zayn's face.

They're just friends, now. 

Just friends. 

"I know," he says instead and Zayn chuckles.

"Merry almost-Christmas," Zayn says softly.

"You too. Get out the honey?"

"Yeah." He goes over to the fridge and rummages through it. After a minute, he says, "You don't have Nutella?"

Harry adds a freshly made crepe to the stack of finished ones by the stove. He's made probably ten too many by now, hands beginning to fidget. "No. It's overrated."

"Huh. All these years of peace and now we disagree on a spread."

"It really isn't that good!"

"It's the best way to eat crepes," Zayn argues.

"I'll _show_ you a better way."

"With honey?"

"With honey."

"That's ridiculous."

"You're ridiculous."

Zayn laughs and Harry laughs and Harry feels so relieved, so content to be here with Zayn a few days before Christmas. The stack of crepes in front of Harry is too tall for four people to tackle let alone two, so Harry turns off the fire and turns around, walking over to the breakfast table and setting the plate of crepes down onto it.

Honey is all he has, otherwise the table would be decorated with all sorts of assorted jams and chocolate spreads and peanut butter and whipped cream. But honey will have to do.

He spreads honey on a crepe for Zayn the best he can, even folding it up nicely like in fancy restaurants. Zayn eyes him warily before taking a bite but when he does, he closes his eyes and let's out an " _mmm_ " noise and Harry tries not to look coy.

"Good, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Zayn sighs.

"Better than Nutella?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Maybe."

Harry laughs again. He makes himself one then another and before they know it they're talking about crepes versus waffles versus pancakes and then the plate is finished and Harry's saying, "Oh, god. I did _not_ think we could finish all of those," with a hand over his belly.

Zayn only sighs, stopping Harry when he moves to put the plates in the sink. "I'll get them, don't worry about it. Thank you. It was so good."

"Yeah."

They stand together and Zayn says, "We're okay, right?"

"We're good."

Zayn doesn't seem to believe him but he doesn't say anything so Harry grins and hugs him. Zayn sighs and hugs him back and Harry thinks of that night in Zayn's foyer when he was so eager to get his arms around Zayn that he let his suitcase fall to the floor. He sighs and Zayn hugs him tighter, both physically relieved that they're back to normal.

 

***

 

They resolve to do cliché Christmassy things like visiting Times Square and getting hot chocolate but promptly abandon their plan when they find out that _Home Alone_ is playing on ABC family. Harry and Ilona, naturally, don't have cable but Harry has a laptop so they sit on the couch and opt for homemade hot chocolate while watching from Harry's computer, which is sitting on their laps. At some point, Zayn rests his head on Harry's shoulder and his breaths falling on Harry's chest combined with the leg he offhandedly threw over Harry's is making Harry so hard that he has to go to the bathroom, where he finds Zoe and nearly trips over his own fear.

"What now?" He whispers furiously, hand over his crotch.

"Have you seen John?" She asks frantically.

"Jean? He's at his apartment, I would assume. I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in two years."

"No, not-" she shoots him a glare. "Not him. John. My weasel."

"You're kidding."

A squeal comes from under the sink and Zoe says, "Oh, thank heavens," opens the door and disappears into the air. Harry's no longer hard, so at least something came out of her impromptu visit.

He walks back out and they finish the movie, then Zayn helps him pack, picking up an article of clothing and saying, "Can I have this?" every once in awhile and frowning when Harry tells him no. Even Zayn's frown makes Harry's blood hotter.

“That’s all of it, right?” Zayn asks later once Harry’s suitcase is full.

“Yep.”

“I’ll walk you out, I have to go to my place anyway.”

“Okay,” Harry says and they make their way to the front door.

“Wait, wait,” Zayn says and darts back to his room. He comes out wearing a coat and holding the gloves Harry gifted him. “Thought I’d give these a try,” he explains as Harry lugs his suitcase out into the hallway.

Zayn tries to put them on but the leather makes them tight and _not_ stretchy, like he obviously hoped they’d be. He nearly gives up with a tired sigh but Harry takes a glove out of Zayn’s hand and opens it up for him to slip his hand into. Zayn does and then he looks at Harry and the moment feels startlingly personal - Zayn’s hand having made it’s way into Harry’s and the tips of their shoes touching and their breathing amplified.

Zayn finally thanks him, putting on the other glove hastily, and walks him outside, waiting while Harry hails a cab. When one pulls up, Harry doesn’t know what to say.

“Okay, then.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll call you when I land,” he says and then refrains from smacking himself in the forehead because _why?_ Even the taxi driver hauling Harry’s suitcase into the trunk notices and chuckles.

Zayn beams, though, thrilled to hear it. “Good,” he says as Harry opens the car door, then before Harry can register the movement, he touches a hand to Harry’s cheek and leans in to kiss the other one, lips lingering for a moment as his thumb brushes against Harry’s skin. “See you.”

 

***

 

Harry spends a week in Oakland with his extended family and a week in Los Angeles with his mother and Ilona. Zayn doesn’t try to FaceTime him again, fortunately, but he does insist to see him when he FaceTimes Ilona.

“Hi!” He says when Ilona hands the phone to Harry.

“Hey.”

“How did Christmas go for you?”

“Great! My mom gave me a plane ticket to New York and a plate of mint chocolate truffles.”

Zayn laughs out loud, unabashedly. “You’re joking!”

“I’m really not.”

“Your mom got you the plane ticket to New York that you needed anyway?”

“My family is the best at gifts.”

“Clearly,” Zayn chuckles.

“What about you?” Harry asks.

“My youngest sister, Safaa, knitted me a scarf, Waliyha got me a new sketchbook, and I’m pretty sure Doniya forgot about me because she got me a used Sephora giftcard.”

Harry snorts. “That’s fun.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I wanted to show you my room,” he flips the camera and walks into his room. “Welcome to hell!”

Harry laughs. The walls are painted red and the comforter is black. In fact, every piece of furniture is black. “Oh god,” he says. “You are the devil himself.” _Herself_ , rather.

“I know. I don’t know why I was such a weird kid. I can’t believe Ilona liked me.”

“It was because of your face.”

Zayn switches the camera back. “Hey,” he whines.

Harry just shrugs, grinning.

A woman’s voice comes from somewhere behind Zayn and he turns, walking towards someplace. “Look,” he says excitedly, grinning before switching the camera again to show Harry a counter full of food. “Samosas not made in a microwave!”

“Wow,” Harry indulges. “I didn’t think you were serious about those.”

“I know. I don’t see them often myself - they’re rare delicatessens.”

Harry chuckles and Zayn pans the camera out to show him the entire kitchen. His mom and two younger sisters are there, all smiling and laughing with flour on their hands and god, Harry wants to meet them and introduce them to _his_ family and sit by their shared Christmas tree and kiss Zayn and play with his hair.

Sometimes he thinks he’s so close to letting Zayn and Ilona live their lives without his juvenile crush, but then it all comes crashing down on him—Zayn’s lips and his smile and his three a.m. giggle.

Someone screams on his phone and Zayn switches the camera back, saying, “Okay, I have to go. I’ll see you soon, though!”

“Yeah, okay.”

 

***

 

When he gets back to New York, Ilona and Zayn are already napping together on the couch, to his dismay. He sighs and hauls his luggage into his room, throwing some shirts into drawers but for the most part leaving it out and open on his floor for it to work as some sort of compact closet for the next two weeks, before calling Jack to hang out. He’s been seeing Jack on and off for nearly a year now, he realizes, so maybe that’s why everything feels so natural with him. Maybe not _natural_ but rather, _routine_. They alternate between the same three restaurants for lunch every time - all in Park Avenue because Jack is a rich asshole who won’t let Harry pay for anything himself. Each time, Harry opts for a soup or sandwich out of guilt while Jack enjoys diamond-encrusted caviar served on bars of gold, or something of the sort.

Jack makes him laugh, at least. He makes him feel smarter, and more proper, too, like he can make his way onto an edition of _Forbes Magazine_ as long as he’s by Jack’s side. Jack isn’t unattractive, either. He has metallic blue eyes and dark blond hair accompanied by a dark brunet beard, somehow. His nose is sharp and cutting and he clearly has strong angles but something overall feels off about his face, regardless of how much Harry tries to push the thought away. He can ignore it, though, like he can ignore Jack’s subtle classism and his capitalistic tendencies. It’s not his fault he was raised by pigs, Harry tells himself.

He doesn’t much notice time when he’s with Jack. December makes way to the beginning of January and he’s barely noticed because while Jack is pleasant, he’s not exciting. He doesn’t make Harry’s hands shake as he checks his watch for the hundredth time in anticipation of their date. In fact, Harry can’t remember the last time Jack made him want to know the time, it feels endless, weightless. He feels like when he’s talking to Jack he loses track of where he is and _who_ he is, if he’s Harry, Ilona’s best friend, or Harry, dying nineteen year old, or Harry, Jack’s pristine boyfriend.

Only Zayn makes him await an hour on the clock, leg twitching and lip sore from biting as he watches his clock say _2:31 _\- twenty-nine minutes.__ And when he’s with Zayn, he can feel every second in his very blood cells, as if his body is saying, you’ve spent another minute with him!

__

__***_ _

__

Zayn’s birthday comes and Harry doesn’t know what to get him that would be appropriate for their newfound relationships as _Friends Who Know They Have Feelings For Each Other But Can't Publicly Show It Or Even Think_ It _._ Moreover, doesn’t know what to get him that will ever be as meaningful as the painting that Zayn took the time to make for him. It sits in his room on his nightstand by the clock as a reminder that his existence is timed, sadly enough.

He selects a new copy of _The Alchemist_ , one of his favorite books, to give to Zayn as a gift but that in itself seems weak so he goes through it with a pencil and a highlighter and writes little notes for Zayn, hoping that Zayn’s not a _keep your books in mint condition_ kind of guy.

 _The Alchemist_ turns out to be both his best friend and his worst enemy. He feels like he can relate to the quotations so well that he’ll accidentally admit his undying crush on Zayn just by highlighting one. He decides to risk it because, what’s the point of being subtle when you’re dying?

His notes aren’t particularly profound, more along the lines of an _I know!_ or a _I can relate… When I was ten, I wanted to try coffee but my mom wouldn’t let me so my friends organized a week-long plan for me to secretly try it. It worked and I still haven’t told my mom, although I feel guilty every time she makes coffee now_. He writes that next to “And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.” He hopes Zayn likes his commentary.

He writes a squiggly _true_ with an underline next to “One is loved because one is loved. No reason is needed for loving,” hoping that it doesn’t come across as creepy, or too obvious. The whole thing makes him feel like a middle schooler writing a note to a crush. He’s even doing it at midnight under his cover with the lamp on.

He leaves some things unsaid, to remain subtle. He only underlines “Everything that happens once can never happen again. But everything that happens twice will surely happen a third time.” Harry hopes Zayn thinks of their kiss, that happened twice. He hopes Zayn will read over this and put down the book and push Harry’s head into his pillow and kiss the feeling from his lips.

When he comes across, “I'm alive. When I'm eating that's all I think about. If I'm on the march, I just concentrate on marching. If I have to fight,it will be just as good a day as any to die. If you can concentrate always on the present, you'll be a happy man. Life is the moment we are living now,” he doesn’t do anything but put a small star next to it. Reading it makes his stomach churn as he thinks of Zoe and death and his limited time and his appeal and his promise to stick to it, though he hasn’t been doing so convincingly.

His favorite quotation, however, is one of the first ones he comes across.

“Maktub,” it reads. “(It is written.)”

He considers putting a heart by it. Then another and another until the entire page is filled with hearts, but he realizes that only middle schoolers would do such a thing and he tells himself to get a grip. He circles it with highlighter three times instead, hoping that Zayn will get the message that they’re soulmates and that it’s written on every surface and in the center of every star. That the hands of every clock resound it with every tick and that it echoes off of every drip of every leaky kitchen faucet. That Harry knows it and that Death herself knows it and that Zayn knows it too - he just doesn’t know he knows it.

 _It’s complicated,_ he wants to write next to it but he doesn’t. It’s not complicated. It’s fairly simple. They’re meant to be together. It’s written his life line. He can’t die without it. They just can’t, yet.  Not until Zayn loves him and Ilona no longer loves Zayn. 

When he finally finishes, it’s the morning of Zayn’s birthday, embarrassingly so, and he doesn’t even bother wrapping it. He writes _For you to enjoy_. _Thanks for everything_ on the inside of the cover and stuffs it in a used gift bag and hands it to Zayn when he sees him in the kitchen. Ilona is up too, humming while trying her best to make pancakes.

“Happy twenty-first! You’re finally able to legally do all the things you already do.”

Zayn laughs and takes the bag. “I know. I can’t believe it. Should I open this now or later?”

“Later!” Ilona calls from the stove. Zayn doesn’t seem to hear, staring intently at Harry.

“Later,” Harry agrees, fearing Zayn will react negatively if the first gift he receives since waking up is a used, highlighted, and written-on book.

Hours later, when he does open it after eating a home cooked meal by Harry, which Ilona promptly took the credit for because they both know she can’t work an oven to save her life, he looks at it like he’s never seen anything better.

“You,” he starts, still looking at it, skimming through the pages.

Harry bites his lip. “Is it okay?”

“Is it okay? Shit, Harry, It’s amazing. I love it.” He looks up finally and stares at Harry like he can’t believe he exists. “I love it,” he says again, softly.

Harry feels out of words, useless and frazzled, so he only smiles and looks down at his knees in attempt to cool his overheated cheeks.

 

***

 

Zayn doesn’t read it immediately. He says he’s too busy, that he’s sorry, and that he’ll read it as soon as he gets a chance to. Harry’s almost relieved, actually, that he has time to prepare himself for Zayn reading all of his emotions in a series of pages.

He bids adieu to his teenage years at midnight on the first with his mom on the phone and Ilona coming into his room with a candlelit cupcake in her hand. Zayn joins shortly after, murmuring, “Happy birthday, babe,” into Harry’s shoulder. He hasn’t called Harry that in months and it makes Harry blush so hard that he suspects his mom can hear the blood rushing to his cheeks over the phone.

After he’s officially rid of his teens, he finds an internship over the summer at a quaint company in Brooklyn that he has to take a forty minute subway to every morning but doesn't regret when they decide to start paying him very shortly after he starts.

He falls in love with just about everyone on his floor - the hot manager, Jana, the sarcastic sales representative, Eddie, and especially the fiery accountant, Donna. Donna makes him laugh from the very pits of his stomach. She’s forty going on fifty but claims to turn twenty-nine every year and has curly hair blacker than night and is probably Harry’s favorite person in the world. When she’s not being witty and exaggeratedly comical, she’s sweet and consoling, helping Harry through problems he hasn’t even told her about. There’s something about her face that Harry finds so much comfort in, that almost reminds him of his own mother. He feels like they’re in a one-sided relationship, like she’s his best friend while he’s just the intern on the floor to her, but he doesn’t mind, he loves her that much. He’ll crack her eventually.

He loves it, this almost-job of his. He loves dressing in business attire and he loves taking a subway miles away from the people he spends most of his time with and he loves the concept of being so far away that no matter how vividly he describes his work friends, Zayn and Ilona will never really understand them.

It’s a false sense of competitiveness that he simultaneously loves and hates for making him an asshole. _Something that we don't share_ , he wants to tell Ilona. _Something that you’ll never get a glimpse of_. The thought makes him put his head in his hands in shame for creating a one-sided competition with his best friend in the entire world. He’s an idiot.

Despite his flaws in character, he manages to get through the next school year with decent (“superb!” says his mother) grades all the while continuing to work in the evenings. It limits his time with Ilona and Zayn, which isn’t too bad, seeing as he is just a third wheel in their relationship, but when it dawns on Jana that a student at Columbia University, living in Manhattan and taking out student loans, wants to continue to work, she offers him the promise of a full time job as soon as he graduates. The offer makes Harry’s eyes bulge as he realizes he doesn’t need to study for a masters because he’s being offered a lifetime of stability starting at the tender age of twenty-two. He takes it with open arms, but doesn’t stop interning.

When Ilona turns twenty-one in October, she and Zayn start to go clubbing together, which Harry isn’t invited to for obvious reasons, but he still finds it rude. Drunk Zayn is someone Harry can’t understand. Sometimes he wakes to the front door opening at five in the morning and regretfully hears Zayn pushing Ilona into her bedroom door, harder than he usually would, while she giggles mercilessly. Sometime Zayn goes out alone, perhaps to a bar with friends who aren’t Harry and Ilona and he’ll come back an hour before Harry has to leave for class, smelling of mint-flavored vodka, and he’ll get right into bed with Harry, murmuring something nonsensical like, “It’s a little sour for my taste,” before sticking his nose into Harry’s hair. Harry both loves and hates situations like those. He loves them because he gets to turn around and press a hand to Zayn’s warm stomach under his shirt, over his ribs and up his chest until he reaches the dip of his neck, and in turn Zayn, eyes closed, will press a sleepy hand to Harry’s cheek a let out an alcohol-tainted sigh. He hates them because he doesn’t have a reason to hate them but he knows he should.

 

***

 

By the time fall has made way to winter, Zayn finally gets around to reading his gift. He reads it all in one night and Harry can tell because Zayn comes into his room at half past five in the morning and crawls into bed next to him, book still in hand.

“Harry,” he says when Harry doesn’t react.

Harry grumbles.

“Harry,” he tries again and Harry finally turns over to face him.

“I read it,” Zayn says when he notices he has Harry’s attention. He brings his hand up to touch Harry’s cheek, eyes glowing.

Harry’s sighs, giving in and putting his own hand over Zayn’s. “Did you like it?”

“I like you.”

Harry blinks a few times, trying to process. “I would hope so,” he finally says, trying to remain neutral but Zayn smiles and shakes his head, laughs, even.

“No, I mean,” he starts, then leans in to press a kiss to Harry’s cheek, then his eyebrow. “I _love_ you,” he murmurs quietly, pulling back to stare at Harry. Then without missing a beat, he leans back in and kisses his lips. Harry jerks away, heart pounding and lips tingling, but Zayn gives him a concentrated look, runs his thumb over Harry’s lips, and kisses him again, this time keeping them pressed together. He sighs against his lips and Harry shivers.

Until he remembers Ilona and very quickly puts himself back together.

“Zayn,” he grits out and shoves him back. Zayn looks remotely confused, then utterly horrified, retracting his hand and covering his face with it.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding breathless. Harry can still feel his lips on his skin and he feels so stunned that momentarily, he feels like he’s back in California and his mom can hear him through his bedroom wall.

Harry doesn't say anything because his lips are still tingling from the shock of the kiss.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn says again. “That was. I’ll go.” Hearing it makes Harry’s heart thump so wildly against his rib cage - the thought of Zayn leaving - that he feels for a moment that this is it, that his body is giving up, and it makes the rest of him feel weak. He suddenly can't breathe as he watches Zayn walk awkwardly towards the door.

“Wait,” he says feebly. Zayn turns around and Harry shakes his head furiously. “Don't.”

Zayn lets out a sigh of relief and then in a second is back on Harry’s bed, pushing him down into the mattress and holding his face in his hands.

“Fuck. What are you doing to me?” He looks at Harry until he nods and then kisses his lips, breathing hard. Their chests are pressed together and Harry can feel how hard Zayn’s heart is beating. Zayn can probably feel his too and the thought excites him and makes him nervous all at once, how Zayn can feel his erratic breaths and his frantic pulse and the way he's shivering. Their lips slide together messily and Harry whimpers.

“Zayn,” he breathes, barely making a sound and Zayn nods against his lips, clearly agreeing. Harry grinds up into him, his hips rising off the bed. Zayn sneaks a hand under Harry's shirt and and pulls his body up into his as he drops kisses down his neck that leave Harry trembling. Zayn stops all movement when Harry stifles a groan and looks down at him, plain and simple. Harry looks at Zayn too, at his heaving chest and his pink lips, his collarbones and the bead of sweat running down his neck. Zayn raises a hand to push hair away from Harry’s forehead and Harry catches it with his and kisses his knuckles, cursing himself when he realizes he's being too sentimental.

He grinds his hips up against Zayn's again and Zayn takes a shuddering breath, lip wobbling as he says, “Jesus, you're good at this,” and drops down, resting his forehead against Harry’s cheek, not moving.

Eventually, they roll over so they’re both on their sides and Zayn presses his lips to Harry’s hot cheek, kissing it again and again.

"I can't stop myself with you," he whispers, not looking at Harry. 

"I don't want you to," Harry replies, honestly. 

"But Ilona."

Harry shrugs sadly. "Do you want to stop?"

"Fuck, no," Zayn says, rolling them over so he's on top of Harry again and grabbing a handful of Harry's hair to pull. 

" _Zayn,_ " Harry groans, "that's..."

"God. I can't get enough of you.  What are you doing to me?  What are you doing to me?"

Harry laughs, though his breathing feels choppy. Their legs are tangled and they’re both hard, Harry can feel it, but he’s afraid to move, scared to ruin the moment. After a few seconds, Zayn kisses his neck and his hand moves to the small of Harry’s back to pull them flush together as he grinds, tentatively at first.

“Is this okay?” He asks when Harry’s breath catches in his throat and he nods, pulling Zayn in to kiss him again. Zayn’s other hand comes up to stroke Harry’s jaw as he continues to grind slowly against him, the friction unbearable.

“Zayn,” Harry says quietly when he’s close, toes curling abruptly enough to cramp. He feels like he’s in middle school, like he’s thirteen and watching porn for the first time as he clenches his teeth and says, “Zayn,” again.

Zayn grips his jaw and says, “It’s okay, it’s okay. Good, yeah?” He smiles and Harry nods. He moves his hand from Harry’s face and down his boxers instead, gripping him slowly and getting one stroke in before Harry gasps weakly and comes. Harry puts a hand on Zayn’s bare stomach, ready to bring it down and stroke him until he comes but it seems he doesn’t need to - Zayn grips Harry closer and grinds against him one last time, eyes squeezed tightly shut and mouth falling open, and comes.

They separate, staring at the ceiling and not touching for a while so they can cool off, but it feels off so Harry throws an arm over Zayn’s stomach.

Neither of them speaks for a while, until Harry asks:

“Which one was it?”

“ _Maktub_.”


	4. 21

**21**

On a good day, Harry spends at least a few hours feeling sick to his stomach. Summer passes dreadfully slowly since he can’t afford to go back to California, and his mom is on vacation with Robin, anyway, so whatever plans he had to hide away under her arm vanish into thin air. It's very sweet, really. Robin booked two flights to the Maldives over Christmas break and waited until early May to surprise Anne. Harry wonders why his idea of romance is highlighting things in a used copy of a book. Instead of going home, he spends his few free months watching movies with good reviews on _Rotten Tomatoes_ and working part time at an exotic gelato place that offers a flavor called _Olive Oil_ , which Harry thinks is just wrong, but otherwise loves the atmosphere of the shop. He’d wanted to continue his internship, but Donna made him take a year off to “find himself”.

While he doesn't do that, he _does_ find the time to finally start his mile-long reading list, which he proudly uses as an excuse to either hole himself up in his room or leave the apartment altogether. He doesn't so much as say two sentences to Zayn the entire summer, despite his valiant efforts to march into his room and punch him in the face and then kiss him. It's started to represent some sort of pattern - their relationship - that he can't figure out and it irritates him so much he wants to kick a wall. They’re okay for a couple of months, and then one - or both, sometimes - of them crosses the line, the invisible barrier that seems to be the building block of Harry’s life, and weeks of avoidance ensue. It happens too often, one of them stepping over the line like this. It's lasting longer than it ever has this time, though, and it's starting to worry Harry - how easily he avoids Zayn’s gaze and how readily he leaves the room when he feels Zayn’s presence.

The school year starts like any other and Harry realizes he’s nearly finished his last year of college while managing to avoid Zayn the entire time by more or less living at Jack’s.

“Seriously, are you okay?” Ilona asks him one particularly dreary Saturday while they're having dinner together.

_Most definitely not._

“Are you sick or something?”

“I’m just tired. Don’t worry about it.”

“Going to the most prestigious school in the city finally getting to you?”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me. I can’t do finals this year. I can’t believe I’ve even made it this far while keeping all my limbs intact. I feel like I should be dead by now.” He winces as he realizes the irony of his joke.

Ilona laughs, though, and nudges him so that his grip on the ramen between his chopsticks falters and noodles slip back into the bowl with a splash. “Don’t give up now!”

Harry sighs and nods, feeling acutely stupid. He doesn’t know how he got into an ivy league. He can’t even use chopsticks properly.

Zayn can. Zayn can do anything, apparently, except for dislike Harry.

“I _do_ love you,” he had said very softly to Harry on that fateful night after they’d both cooled down, eyes still closed.

“Well that’s just not fair, Zayn,” Harry had replied, although his anger had been lost in translation and he just sounded sad. _You get Ilona and me while I get the angel of fucking death at my heels at every corner._

“I know. I’m sorry,” Zayn had just sighed and Harry hadn’t replied, not then and not since then, choosing to avoid Zayn resolutely.

 _Harry please_ , Zayn texted him an hour ago. _oh god. did you block me?_

It made Harry laugh because he couldn’t if he wanted to. Ilona asked what he was laughing at and he lied and said his mom saw his neighbor wearing sandals with socks, and then he wondered when he started lying to his best friend so frequently. Ilona noticed something was off, obviously, so now she won’t make eye contact with Harry as she picks at her noodles. They’re Korean-style, egg on top and everything, but neither of them is particularly hungry.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” She finally asks.

“Um,” Harry swallows and then surprises even himself when he says, “Remember in high school when I was, like, dying?”

Ilona’s eyebrows move close together and she nods.

“I sort of lied to everyone. Or. Not lied, but, left out information. I _was_ cured, but not indefinitely. The doctor said my embolism could come back at any time, and if it did it would be more serious than the first time."

She visibly tenses. "Do you think it's back?"

"Well, no. I mean. I don't know. Maybe, maybe not. But I don't have a good feeling about it and there are like three weeks until I graduate and I just need to leave and do things I’ve always wanted to do. I’ve been saving up for a while. I think I’m, like, gonna tour either South America or Europe.”

Ilona has tears in her eyes when Harry looks over at her. “What? You could possibly have a fatal ailment and you want to be alone during your last moments?”

Harry scoots his chair closer and hugs her. “Ilona, you know me. I need to do things for myself.”

“Is Jack going with you?”

“No! No.”

“Thank god.”

“Hey!”

“You know I hate him, Harry.”

Harry sighs. “I know.”

“So does Zayn.”

“Yeah, that much is obvious.” He sighs again and focuses his gaze at the noodles in front of him, wishing it weren't.

 

***

 

Harry takes the subway to see Jack shortly after his conversation with Ilona. He wears the pineapple shirt Jack gave him for Christmas to surprise him and taps his foot against the floor of the metro the entire time, wracked with nerves over he doesn't know what. Jack keeps a spare key in a plant by the door to his condo because he’s stupid, Harry presumes, but he’s thankful he knows where it is so he doesn’t have to tell Jack he lost the original Jack gave him. When he enters, though, a dark-haired girl in just a t-shirt is sitting on Jack’s couch. The water from the shower in the bathroom is running.

She starts when she sees Harry. “Um!”

He furrows his eyebrows.

“Who are you?” She asks.

Heart in his mouth, Harry cracks open his lips to speak but finds he can't, pulse suddenly skyrocketing. “Jack’s boyfriend,” he finally managed and winces at her reaction.

She laughs, then says. “Are you serious?” and takes on an expression of anger. “I’m his girlfriend. God. I’m gonna kill him. Are you Harry?”

“Yeah.” He shifts uncomfortably at the door, hand still clutching the knob.

“I saw him texting you. He said you were a classmate.”

“What’s your name?”

“Beky.”

Harry feels sick, stomach suddenly twisting and blood boiling. “Okay. I’m gonna go.”

“Me too. Actually. I’m gonna pee in his drinks.”

Harry lets himself laugh for a second, and then leaves. Trying not the cry on the subway is one of the hardest things he's had to do, lip quivering as he hides his face behind his arm. When he gets back home, Zayn’s leaving the apartment and seeing him makes Harry want to cry even more. Actually, it makes him want to sob because it's not _fair_. He doesn’t think he actually will, but then Zayn says, “Hey,” trying to talk to him like he always does, even when he knows Harry's ignoring him, and Harry’s face crinkles as a fresh wave of tears hits him.

“Harry?” Zayn asks, concerned. He seems awkward in his body, standing taught a foot away from Harry like a confused child. Harry doesn't blame him. They haven't spoken properly in weeks.

Harry shakes his head. Zayn places a tentative hand on his shoulder after a minute of standing frozen in his spot and Harry covers his face, shaking his head again. “What’s wrong?”

“Jack has a girlfriend,” Harry admits on an sob.

“Oh, babe.”

Harry sighs loudly, wiping his eyes, and finally allows Zayn to hug him. It seems to all come crashing down around him and he doesn't think he's ever felt more sad in his life.

“Why am I _never_ anyone's first choice?” He whispers, and feels Zayn still against him.

 

***

 

To be honest with himself, Harry wasn't sure whether or not he’d graduate. His last final was so hard that he almost packed his bags and booked the next flight to California after he took it, promising himself a life of bus driving. As he stands in a light blue robe in an impossibly large crowd of other graduating students, though, he finally gives himself credit for the hard work he's put in. He _did_ nearly lose his life trying to graduate.

Zayn shows up to Harry’s graduation because he’s the best person Harry knows. There’s something very sad about his smile, but he hugs Harry and pats the back of his neck nonetheless.

“Ilona says you’re traveling for a few months.”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you going?”

“Morocco, I think.”

“Woah,” Zayn smiles. “South America’s not where I thought it was.”

Harry shrugs, smiling too. “Changed my mind. Besides, not many Californians can say they’ve been to Africa.”

Zayn laughs. “That’s true. Do you need help packing?”

“I’m good. Trying to bring only the bare essentials. Anyway, didn’t you want to travel too? Where are you going?”

“Haven’t decided. I’m not sure I can afford it yet, anyway.”

“Oh. Soon.”

“Yeah. Hopefully,” Zayn agrees and Harry wishes he could tear down the wall between them and stand in comfort, but he can't, so he rocks on the balls of his feet and gives Zayn an awkward smile.

 

***

 

Harry’s chest hurts while he packs his suitcase. He keeps thinking he’ll start crying but can’t seem to and he wonders if somewhere along the way, he became void of all emotion. Knowing you’re dying really does fuck something up in your head, he resolves. He can’t help but think that he won’t come back, that Zoe will call quits on the whole operation and take his last breath from him while he’s looking at something blue in Morocco. It’d be better than dying in New York, at least.

He decides to talk to Ilona because he’s tired of being an asshole. She’s watching a movie on her laptop when he walks into her room.

“Haz.”

“Hey. Um. I know this is awful, but. I don’t think I’m going to come back,” he says in a rush.

“What?” She starts. “Why not?”

He squeezes his eyes shut and wills for the right words to come out. What he ends up saying is: “I really can’t be here. I might be dying and I’m a terrible friend and a terrible roommate and a terrible person. I kissed Zayn a few weeks ago.”

“You what?” She says, eyes wide. Her voice has gone very soft.

“I’m sorry,” he tries.

“That’s—” she shakes her head and wipes her eyes where he realizes they’ve been watering. “You’re a shit person, Harry. I thought we were friends.”

“We _are_ friends!”

“We’re clearly not! That’s a really shitty thing to do, Harry. Do you like him? Is that it? And you didn’t think to tell me any time during the multiple years that we were dating?”

“Were?”

“He—I don’t even want to tell you now, Harry, because it’s probably your fucking fault. I told him I wasn’t feeling it anymore - the excitement we used to have - and then he said we should go on another break. Except this time it’s been three weeks and I think we’ve officially broken up.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were at Jack’s. Plus I thought you would have figured it out when you didn’t see Zayn around here for weeks. I don’t know. I felt it coming. The excitement really was gone. I’m not that sad about it.”

“That part is good, at least.”

She looks up at him and her face is red. “You still fucked up Harry.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t accompany him to the airport the next day.

 

***

 

When he gets to Morocco, he realizes he never wants to leave. The streets are narrow and the walls are blue and the food is delicious and he'd like to stay forever. He buys a fez from Fes before he leaves because he can’t let the opportunity pass him. He’d like to buy every rug and fabric in the marketplace and he wants to adopt all the sneaky cats he comes across.

He can't, though, because that would hinder his plans for the rest of Africa.

There is something so exquisitely beautiful about Algeria that when he composes an email to his mother like he promised he would in every country, he doesn’t put any words - just pictures. It appeals to him so much that he abandons his original plan to only see five main tourist attractions and decides to squeeze in as many as he can. By the time he gets to Mohamed Belouizdad to see the Botanical Gardens of Hamma, he’s completely spent.

He almost unpacks his belongings in every cafe he enters in Tunisia, they're all so lovely. Tunisia has a reverent allure that Harry’s sure only makes it more staggering to natives and inhabitants. It makes him want to look for apartments and learn French and settle down somewhere just outside of Sfax.

He finds himself scribbling on napkins like a fool when he gets bored. He half hates himself because he made an unspoken promise to Ilona to be a good friend yet here he is, writing _Zayn, I can't stop thinking about you. I miss your skin and your eyes and your lips._

His visit to Libya is alarming, to say the least. He’d looked forward to seeing the Temple of Zeus since he first did research on it back in New York, but when he arrives, he’s greeted by none other than Zoe, arms raised as she stands in the middle of the temple. Wearing a burqa.

He yelps and then slaps a hand to his mouth when she notices him.

“Did you really think you could avoid me by escaping to _Africa_?”

“I wasn’t trying to avoid you. I was just. Trying to do some things on my bucket list.”

“I’m glad you like it here.”

“Why are you wearing a burqa?”

She glances at him and looks as perturbed as he does. “The native people here recognize me. I don’t know how. I have to speak with the Council about it, but frankly they do and I have to disguise myself. But the standing in the middle of Zeus’s temple part was just to scare you.”

“Did you need to tell me something?”

“Yes. Your life expectancy has been extended.”

‘What? By how much?”

“I won’t tell you that. If I do, you’ll still feel as though you’re on this mission. You don’t have to live with a purpose anymore, Harry Styles. The Council contacted me and when looking into your potential future, they found rather important events. Congratulations. You’re free of me.”

Harry’s so shocked that he has to clutch his face in his hands and lean against a pillar for balance. “Oh my god. What about Zayn? Do I still need to be with him? And how many years are you adding? What important events?” When he uncovers his eyes to look at Zoe, though, she’s gone.

 

***

 

He’s so relieved he doesn’t have to _ruin_ Ilona’s life that he calls her as soon as the free phone call app finishes downloading. He hesitates when he dials her number, but he can’t not call her. She’s his best friend, after all.

“Ilona?” He says when she picks up.

“Harry! How’s Africa?” He's grateful she isn't still angry.

“Great! Listen, Zoe called me and said I’m totally healthy!”

“Who?”

“Zoe,” he repeats, louder.

“Who’s that?”

 _What?_ “What?”

“You said you spoke to a Zoe. Who’s that? Is she your doctor?”

“Um.” He can’t understand why Zoe would erase herself from Ilona’s memory. “Yeah. She’s the doctor I had in high school.”

“That’s great! Does this mean you’re coming home?”

“Are you still mad at me?”

He hears her sigh. “Yes. But you’re still my best friend and we can’t let a boy stop that.” She pauses. “Sorry, that was super cliché.”

He laughs. “You’re fine. I _am_ coming home, though. After Egypt.”

***

Stepping on Egyptian sand makes his heart clench so terribly that he has to press a hand to his chest. He misses Zayn. He loves Zayn. He loves his hair and his nose and his fingers. He wants to get on a camel's back and travel to the pyramids of Egypt like in _The Alchemist_ and lay down and for the first time since high school, just rest. He wants to take a break. He wants to be with Zayn without complications. He wants to hold Zayn's hand in public. He wants Zayn.

Most of all, he wants to stop thinking of Zayn so often and enjoy his damn vacation.

 

***

 

“Let me slap you across the face,” is the first thing Ilona says when she meets Harry at the airport.

“What?” His smile falters. “In front of all these people?”

“You deserve it!”

“You guys were gonna break up anyway,” he mumbles.

“Are you serious?”

“No. Sorry. That was shitty. Do it.”

He clenches his teeth and she giggles, and then slaps him so hard that at least fifty people turn to stare at them.

“You told me you loved me!” She cries theatrically. “You said I was the only one for you. And now you want to break up?

“Ilona, what—”

"I’m pregnant!” A loud gasp comes from their audience. His face stings and he’s sure there’s a red, hand-shaped mark.

“Are you finished?” He mutters through gritted teeth.

She laughs and turns around. “Yeah. You know you deserved that.”

He sighs. “I know.”

 

***

They only spend about a week together because Harry’s moving to Brooklyn to be closer to work and Ilona was accepted into a medical school in Washington.

“Washington? Seriously?” Harry had said when she told him.

“My mom’s so proud,” she’d responded.

A part of him wants to ask her where she lies with Zayn, now, but he can’t, because he’s been enough of an ass as it is. Instead, he helps her pack and takes pictures of himself on her phone and moves them to an album he creates called _Harry is the best person in the world_.

“Hilona is coming to a close,” she says sadly the day before she has to leave.

“Don’t say that, c’mon. We don’t live in the stone age. We have cellphones. I expect you to facetime me at least once an hour.”

Instead of responding, she hugs him tightly.

He offers to take her to the airport but she wants to say goodbye to all her other New York friends, so they part from their twentieth tearful hug and she leaves him in their now empty apartment.

 

***

 

Harry seriously considers taking a cab to Zayn’s apartment and falling on one knee and proposing to him, but he can’t, because he needs to be a good friend to Ilona first. Instead, he makes his way to Brooklyn and unpacks his things in his new apartment there - a much bigger, much nicer one than he could afford in Manhattan.

He goes back to work, now an official employee, and greets Donna politely. He can’t hug her in public, but as soon as she steps into her office, she wraps an arm around him and says, “I’ve missed you, my boy.”

Over the course of the next few months, he adopts a cat and gets the tattoo he told Zayn about all those years ago. He writes a million letters to Zayn and just leaves them lying around in his apartment, all signed with a sloppy star, like the one on his arm.

Lisa from work gets pregnant and Harry's granted the honor of being the godfather, since he's been Lisa's only source of interaction for the past few months. The father of the child, an annoying-sounding man named Frank, left as soon as Lisa announced her pregnancy and the thought made Harry so livid that he bought Lisa the most expensive stroller he could find. Lisa immediately befriended him at the water jug and they began to talk everyday. She tries kissing him one time in the confines of her cubicle but Harry politely steps away, thinking of Zayn and his lovely hands and his soft lips and how he would rather die alone than be with someone else. Well, probably not. He may be overreacting about this whole thing.

He can’t say he’s not happy with his new life, in his quaint business in Brooklyn and his new kitten named Pepsi. He goes on a few dates with a girl named Kendall to get his love life back on the tracks after realizing how pathetic he's being by avoiding all physical contact from anyone who's not Zayn, but ends up spilling cranberry juice all over her designer skirt. She doesn’t call him again.

Overall, he’s approaching twenty-two but he’s never felt less like an adult, despite his office job and the grey hair he found in his bathroom sink the other day. He wasn't sure if it was his or the previous owner of his apartment’s, but he wasn't taking any chances and went on a kale and blueberry cleanse for a week after that.

He realizes dully that outside of Ilona, he only has work friends. Lately she's stopped responding to his texts and emails, which he figures is warranted after he broke every rule in the best friend handbook.

 _hahahahahsgajhxajzzj oh my god I have to read 250 pages by tomorrow I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead bye_ is the last thing she texted him.

 _You drew back the covers of your own deathbed_ was his response. He thought it was funny at the time, but, it would be funnier if she'd replied.

Seen 1:21 am, it said. She has her read receipts on because she's fierce, evidently.

He tried a few _Hey! FaceTime?_ s after that, but to no avail. It says she hasn't even seen them and he sighs as he thinks about how hard she must be working, crouched over her textbooks reading furiously as he goes to work at the most relaxed job in the world and plays with his two month old kitten.

 

***

 

Because God hates him, he runs into Zayn just outside of a convenience store after buying bread. Zayn's stopped in the middle of the sidewalk outside of it, looking at something on his phone when Harry sees him. His heart just about stops when he does and he has the sudden urge to drop the bread, dart out of the store, and move back to Oakland to live in his mom's basement and adopt five cats, but his instinct acts quickly and he somehow says, "Zayn!"

Zayn turns around with wide eyes. "Harry. Hey!"

They stand and stare at each other for a few still moments with big eyes before Harry decides that the best way to relieve the awkwardness of the situation is to hold up the bag of bread in his hand and clarify, "Bread," as if Zayn wants to know. It's not his best moment. 

Zayn, thankfully, laughs and says, "Cigarettes. I missed you. It's really good to see you."

Harry's shoulders untense. "Are you in Brooklyn now?"

"No, I'm visiting a friend here for a few days. I live in Soho now. Found a much more affordable apartment than Louis’s penthouse."

Harry smiles, then says more somberly, "Sorry I haven't kept in touch. I just figured..."

Zayn nods. "No, yeah. There really was no reason for you to."

Harry nods too and blinks back an unforeseen wave of dejection. "Yeah."

"I didn't-I mean. There is now."

Harry tries to laugh but instead half-smiles and lets out a short stream of air through his nose. His entire body feels heavy.

"If you want to text me, or like. We could have lunch sometime, maybe," Zayn continues and dips his head down for a moment to look at something of interest on his shoes. When he looks up, he's blushing and Harry almost falls to the floor before Zayn finally shrugs and sticks his hands in his front pockets, waiting for an answer.

"Lunch?"

"Lunch."

"A date?"

 

"Yes, Harry.  A date.  If you think I can bear to be friends with you for another minute, you're gravely mistaken." He smiles.

"No, I..." Harry chuckles. "I want it to be a date, too."

"You do?"

"Zayn—yeah, Jesus. I do."

Zayn dips his head down and stares at the ground underneath his feet for a few seconds, cheeks tinted pink. "That's. Okay. That's really good."

"Yeah."

"When can you..."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow sounds great." Zayn says it with such an excited look on his face that Harry can't help but to reciprocate. He raises his hand to rearrange his hair so Zayn can't see the burning red tips of his ears.

Zayn kicks awkwardly at the sidewalk with the toe of his shoe after the ordeal is settled, and says, "Okay then. I'll see you tomorrow."

Harry points his thumb over his shoulder at a nonexistent event he needs to get to and says, "Yeah, okay. I'd better go. Text me the details, okay?"

Zayn nods and turns around, taking a few slow steps in the opposite direction as Harry does the same. Once Harry's turned his back, though, he hears, "Harry, wait!” and it makes his heart hammer wildly in his chest.

Harry turns, not sure if it's a good idea but so desperate for some sort of reassurance that things are the way they used to be that he doesn't even think before spinning on his heel and facing Zayn again. Zayn, apparently, has leaped whatever hurdle was between them before as he jogs up to Harry and grabs him in a quick hug.

Harry loses his breath, so surprised that he almost doesn't move before his brain shouts at him to get a grip and he hugs Zayn back, hand finding the back of his neck as he exhales for the first time in what feels like a year.

"I missed you," Zayn says against his neck and he's laughing, Harry realizes. Harry laughs too at the stark irony of the situation.

"Me too," he agrees.

 

***

 

It takes Harry twenty-five minutes to get home, which, he reasons, is only embarrassing if you know that he lives eight minutes from the convenience store. When they finally head in opposite directions, he only makes it to the the corner of the street before he gives in and leans his body against the side of a building, trying to catch his breath as he presses his fingers against the spot on his neck that Zayn kissed before they parted. He can't seem to focus enough to remember the few turns he has to make to reach his apartment and he has to sit down at the next bench he finds while he tries to calm down, smiling so hard he bites his tongue with it. He wants to text Zayn and tell him he hasn't stopped thinking about him in the ten minutes that they've been apart. He wants to check his phone in case Zayn has sent him a considerate text like he used to when he was nineteen and Zayn was twenty, a sweet _can't wait to see youuuu_ , but he left his phone at home in a haste to buy bread, which has evidently become a necessity in his life.

When he finally gets home, it's to thirty-four missed calls, from his and Ilona's moms. It sends a rush of panic through him as he calls back hastily. On the fourth ring, his mother picks up and for a minute all he can hear is crying.

"Mom?" He tries softly, biting his lip in worry.

She doesn't say anything for a minute but eventually she says, "Oh Harry. Check your email. I'm so sorry."

He opens his mail app, hands already shaking with anxiety at what could possibly have his mom crying so hard. When he sees the link she sent him, he has to put down his phone and hold a hand over his mouth to keep in the vomit threatening to spill out just from reading the URL. He picks it up with shaking hands, tears clouding his vision and when he reads the headline, he can't stop himself from running to the bathroom and emptying his stomach.

_FOUR STUDENTS DIE IN VIOLENT CAR ACCIDENT, SEATTLE WASHINGTON_


	5. 23-

**23-**

 

When Harry looks at himself in the mirror, on a good day, he doesn't hate what he sees. He's glad he gained back the weight he lost after what happened. Eating was harder than he expected, like when he got braces in the sixth grade and it hurt too much to eat anything other than pudding for three weeks. He lost so much weight that his mom threatened to inject fat back into him with a needle. This time, however, it lasted half a year or so. He couldn't bring anything to his mouth because he felt so sick all the time he thought he'd vomit with such force that eventually his stomach would pop out along with his undigested food. The nausea lasted longer than he would have thought and a few times he caught himself wondering if it would ever go away or if he'd just have to learn to live with it, like his aunt Amy who had a hole in the passage connecting her esophagus to her stomach and the symptoms of a pregnant woman for twenty years.

Around the fourth month, the nausea passed and it became more like waving a flag for Zoe to come. He figured if he was on the brink of death she would come and smack him with a telephone book and tell him that one death in his community was enough, that he should stop tormenting himself and give himself a proper meal and a nights rest. She never came though. He wonders now if she was ever real or if he had a legitimate mental illness the entire time and she was a mere hallucination. He tried to do research on her but realized he didn't know her actual name, so ended up bookmarking the Wikipedia page for list of all death deities and visiting it daily. He even tried calling for each one, no doubt scaring his neighbors when at three in the morning he'd shout, "Han Qinhu," and the next day, "Anubis," and the next, "Yama," into the dark. He realized later that whatever system she worked in, humans probably haven't named, so his attempts at calling out every name for death in the book were useless.

He's also started sleeping again, which has pleasantly, albeit pathetically, reminded him that the skin under his eyes isn't permanently purple, despite his previous concerns. It came as a shock to him when he came home from an office party and was so exhausted that he fell backwards onto his bed and slept for six hours straight--he'd developed an irrational fear of sleep, avoiding it like the plague and gulping down a liter of coffee whenever he'd feel his eyelids start to droop. That night was the first time in months that he'd let himself close his eyes for more than an hour at a time and he was so surprised when he woke up the next morning that he immediately picked up his phone and called Ilona.

She didn't pick up. _Obviously_ , he told himself with a snort caught in his throat and tears in his eyes.

By far the worst was her funeral, though. He arrived at the church an hour early and sat by himself, trying hard not to break down and sob like a child until a small girl named Ka (short for Ka, she confirmed) sat next to him, rubbed his arm soothingly, and told him how she was raised to believe that after death, people exit the celestial sphere and are encompassed by warmth, safety, and wonder. The foreignness of it comforted him, so he asked her where she was from and she told him her great grandparents were indigenous Ecuadorians and it seemed so unrealistic to meet a descendant of indigenous Ecuadorians that he nearly assumed she was another deity of some sort. She probably was, looking back at it. Or maybe she really was an indigenous Ecuadorian in the middle of Washington.

When her family members finally started filing in, he stood up on wobbly legs and willed himself to calm himself down enough to give them his condolences.

Ilona's mom greeted Harry with a smile, despite everything. It sent a flood of grief so vicious through Harry that he almost fell down. Instead, he fell forward, straight into her arms with a dry sob as he recalled all the time he spent in her house with her daughter, her family and her pets and her. After that, he managed to compose himself enough to not sob in front of her family members. Her boyfriend showed up, which made him feel loads better, considering.

His breath was knocked cleanly out of him, however, when Zayn sat down next to him in the second row of seats.

"Hi," he greeted.

Harry just stared.

"Ilona's mom invited me,” he said. “She said my friendship was important to her even if we broke up.”

Harry didn’t say anything.

“I’m really sorry,” Zayn finally said, very quietly.

Harry doesn’t much remember what happened after that. He thinks he apologized for canceling their lunch date and never calling back only to be quieted by a bewildered Zayn reminding him that his best friend was in a car accident the day before. He thinks he started crying right then and there on Zayn’s shoulder, but again, he can’t remember much.

Now, exactly a year later, he holds his phone in his hands and fights the urge to try to call Ilona again as though she’ll pick up. He hasn’t spoken to Zayn since the funeral, plagued with guilt and nausea at the mere thought of him. He wonders frequently what Ilona would think. What she _is_ thinking if there’s a God and an afterlife and a personified death who clearly despises him.

The urge wins over him and he finds himself dialing her number, raising his phone to his ear and squeezing his eyes shut as her voicemail message comes on.

_Hey, it’s Ilona. Leave a message, or don’t. If you're calling to ask what kind of food to get me the answer is anything spicy._

“Hi, Ilona. Um. It’s been a year. I know I called you two days ago but I wanted to let you know that I spoke to your mom today and didn’t throw myself down the stairs or anything, which I would have done a few months ago. You totally would have laughed. Anyway, I’m trying my hardest not to be sad about everything. God, it’s hard. I started telling jokes at the office again. I laughed so hard today when I walked past a hotdog stand and remembered when you dropped one on Ernie's foot in middle school and he cried so hard he threw up on you. The poor guy. Anyway, I really think I’m good again, which. I never thought I'd say, but. Here I am. I hope you’re well, wherever you are. You probably are. All those charities you worked for in highs chool with your ten thousand clubs. You're probably in the highest tier. God. I miss you. Okay. I should go - I’m talking to a voicemail message. I love you. Bye.”

 

***

 

He still hasn't called Zayn. He figures Zayn understands why. It's just that, he can't figure out whether or not he wants to. He freezes up at the mere prospect of it, flooded by both guilt and anxiety and he can't bring himself to do it out of respect for Ilona. It's a nasty move. Worse than nasty, actually. It's vile. Heartless. Going on a date with your dead best friend's ex boyfriend. It makes him sick to his stomach, the harsh reality of the situation and he once nearly deleted Zayn from his contacts to help himself avoid it. He stopped himself though. That would only increase his chances of wallowing in his own depression again.

Despite his gradual return to happiness, he can't reject the anger that seems to control his very core. He feels it all the way to his fingertips any time he meets anyone named Zoe, or even looks remotely like her. It's stupid, he knows, because technically she can change her appearance at will, but it doesn't stop him from chasing anyone who bears the same body type as her.

He can't understand why he was spared but _she_ wasn't, is the thing. He was given four years of leeway and she was given none, presumably.

He's convinced there's a God and he's convinced he hates him because this can't happen, it _can't_. His best friend since conception can't move to a different state and fucking die in a car crash. It can't.

It's the most trauma he's experienced in his like. He's a twenty-three year old man but he doesn’t feel like it when he lies down every night and bites his pillow to hold in the tears that threaten to flood out from behind his eyes. When he passes by a girl who looks like her and has to dig his fingernails into the palm of his hand to stop himself from breaking into a sprint and chasing her. When he bruises his hand slamming it onto the countertop in frustration. Or anger. Or confusion. He can't tell anymore.

He comes face to face with the problem when he runs into Zoe at Walgreens. Well, technically she's not Zoe. She's Ka from the funeral, bright and vibrant as ever, but his suspicions are firm and next thing he knows he's marching up to her and saying, "Why would you kill Ilona but not me?"

Ka turns and squints her eyes at him.

"Harry from the funeral?" She asks wondrously.

"Stop that. I know who you are."

“Who am I, then?”

“You’re-” he groans, frustrated. “Please stop. You’re Zoe, or Death, or Satan or whatever you prefer. Why isn't everything around you crying and in pain? How are you doing this?”

She utters out a shocked laugh. “Do I really look it? I’ve never gotten that before. I’m not Death.”

“Who are you then?”

She inspects the children’s toy in front of her once more before turning to him and saying, “I’m Life, of course.”

 

***

 

Harry doesn’t know how he didn’t guess.

Actually, he does: He didn’t know there was a community of deities. He thought there was just Death. He’s still not sure what Life even does, but he can make an educated guess as he watches Ka speak. He doesn’t know what he feels when he looks at her. It’s not happiness and it’s not gratitude and it’s not serenity. It’s some sort of deep rooted comfort that he can’t manage to explain even to himself. It’s a sense of _I’m here, I’m safe, I’m alive, and I love it_ instilled in him when he’s near her, a sort of vitality that starts in his core and grows and fizzes and crackles and reaches the ends of his hairs as he recalls everything he’s ever done, good and bad, and recognizes the purpose of each. It’s relaxing and energizing at the same time, it makes him want to lay down by the beach and stay still long enough to memorize the patterns of the breeze kissing his skin, and simultaneously jump out of a plane and bungee jump and do everything that scares him because he _knows_ he’ll survive it if he tries hard enough.

“Death and I used to hate each other. I thought she was too swift. Not loving enough. I realized a few eons later that I was wrong, though. It’s all objective. She’s not killing anyone. She does what she has to to keep balance in the universe. So do I. We’re friends now. It was refreshing to discover that she wasn’t actually heartless.” She explains after he tells her about his appeal. He’s mesmerized by her existence, enthralled by the way flowers stand up when she walks past them and the way babies’ cheeks pinken when she looks their direction.

“Why did Ilona have to die?” He tries again, despite knowing he won’t get the answer he wants.

“Harry, you have to believe me. There’s no tangible reason other than to keep harmony in the universe. She didn’t do anything to deserve it and neither did you. It just is what it is.”

Harry sighs, shoulders falling. “What about my appeal? My soulmate?”

“Who, Zayn? You guys are ridiculous. I don’t know too much about that, though, you’d have to ask Lia.”

He looks at her.

“Love,” she provides, rolling her eyes as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Not that she’d waste her time talking to someone avoiding his soulmate for no reason other to be angsty.”

“Hey!”

Ka smiles at him. “You know it’s true. Anyway, I have to go. I have funerals to attend.”

“Funerals? Aren’t you the god - or ruler or whatever - of life?”

She shrugs. “It’s not in my job description, but I find most people at funerals need a bit of life.”

He nods, thankful for everything she does, thankful for the balance in the universe and the energy thrumming around her that he so desperately needs and graciously soaks up.

"Bye, Harry."

He blinks as he realizes he doesn't know where he heard it from or who said it.

He's alone in his room.

 

***

 

He’s barely awake when he sees it: _Zayn Malik calling_. It’s a too-warm Saturday morning in October and he was planning on spending the day lazing away rereading _The Hobbit_ and enjoying the fall flavors in Starbucks.

That all goes to shit when Zayn calls, of course.

His heart is beating so erratically that he's sure he can feel it in his mouth when he finally swipes to answer and provides a small, "Hello?"

"Harry, hey." Harry hasn't heard Zayn's voice in so long it sounds almost angelic.

"Hi!" Harry says. He sounds far too chipper. "What's up?"

Zayn breathes. "I just thought I'd call and say hello. I haven't seen you in forever." He says the last part very quietly and Harry's heart stings with something. Maybe nostalgia. Maybe regret. Probably self-loathing.

"Yeah."

"So, how've you been?"

Harry pauses. "Uh. I've been better. I've been worse. Pretty okay, actually."

"Pretty okay doesn't sound so bad."

"It's not."

Zayn doesn't respond and Harry listens to his breathing for a minute. Finally, Zayn says, "Well listen, I'm coming to Brooklyn for the day to see a friend and was wondering if you wanted to catch up, or something."

Harry feels a hot wave of tears behind his eyes as he grips onto the edge of his nightstand and tries not to get choked up. _Yes_ , he wants to say. _I miss you and probably love you even though nothing about this is right._ "Okay." He definitely should have said no.

"Okay?"

"Okay.”

“Alright. Let's go out for lunch. Like we made plans to a while ago."

Harry stutters out a laugh. “Alright. Yeah, let’s do that.”

“Today?”

Harry jumps out of bed, scrambling suddenly towards his closet and checking for clean clothes. “Uh, sure, okay. Today.”

“Do you have anywhere in mind?” Zayn asks.

“Yeah, I do,” Harry says and bites his lip as he thinks of going on a date with Zayn—an _actual_ date. “I’ll text you the details.”

“Okay,” Zayn replies softly. “I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Yeah, soon.”

 

***

 

Harry almost turns around as he walks towards the Cracked Egg Café. His legs are shaky and he's still conflicted about which shirt he should have chosen to wear. He almost feels like nothing could have prepared him for this day, but he realizes he's being stupid when he looks around and sees the crispy leaves lying around on the sidewalk in beautiful oranges and browns and the gentle breeze in the air. There's no better day to do this than today, but the anxiety is paralyzing. He can't help wondering if Zayn’s moved on and Harry will meet his beautiful wife and even more beautiful children. Or if he’s packing his bags and moving to Sweden where he wants to devote his life to never being near Harry again. It feels like the beginning of middle school again, like little _what if_ s are jumping into his head through his ears and making him doubt his own name.

Zayn's never showed up on time to anything and he's not about to do so now, Harry supposes when he scans the restaurant and doesn't see him. Then again, they agreed on two and its five until, so logically speaking, Harry doesn't need to worry. He still does, anyway.

  
He stands himself in line and looks up at the menu written in chalk on the wall behind the baristas and suddenly he feels a hand on his shoulder and jumps with a start.

"You're early," Zayn says when he turns around, giving Harry no time to be dumbfounded and even less time to marvel at Zayn in all his glory after the millenniums of years that have passed since the last time they spoke.

"Well," Harry decides, eyeing Zayn's new short hair and his grown out stubble and his soft eyes. "You are too."

"True," Zayn shrugs and smiles. "For the first time ever," he adds.

Harry orders avocado toast and Zayn orders cheesy bread and they sit down across from each other at a small table with a vase of dill standing gracefully on the center of it.

Harry doesn't know what to say for what feels like hours. Zayn seems fine, to say the least. Actually, he seems more than fine which Harry only realizes may be unsettling for Zayn later. He asks Harry how he's been and tells him about a job he's found that pays pretty well, and even though Harry wants to pay attention he’s begun to feel slightly ill and his fingers won't stop twitching. Part of him can't believe he's actually seeing Zayn again and another part of him wants to punch himself for agreeing to go on a date with his dead best friend's ex-boyfriend.

It ends fairly quickly and Zayn graciously offers to walk Harry home, though Harry doesn't know why Zayn wants to keep putting up with his mixed signals.

"This didn't go too well, did it?" Zayn asks when they reach Harry's apartment, eyes planted on the ground.

"What?"

"Our date. You were kind of, like, twitching in your seat."

Harry fumbles for words. "It wasn't—I mean. No. It was great. It was great."

"Harry," Zayn starts.

"It's just soon," Harry blurts out, face heating. "And I feel bad and I can't."

"Oh." Zayn nods. "Okay, that—yeah. That makes sense. You shouldn't—I didn't... I shouldn't have called so soon. I'm sorry." He steps back and dips his head. "I had a good time, though. It was good seeing you."

Harry nods, staying quiet even though he wants to yell at himself for being stupid. He probably won't see Zayn again for years, if at all.

"Okay," Zayn says quietly when Harry doesn’t respond. "I guess I'll go, then. Have a nice rest of the day. I'll call you."

"Will you?" Harry asks without thinking and tries not to kick himself.

"Yes, Harry, I will," Zayn chuckles, knocking his foot against Harry's like he does when he's nervous. "Stop thinking I won't wait. I have been since I met you.”

Harry's stomach lurches something painful and he lets out a small laugh, looking away from Zayn. “I feel like you've got it backwards.”

Zayn doesn't respond immediately, but his mouth falls open and Harry can't even believe he's being so awful.

“I mean. You were the one with the girlfriend.”

“Harry-”

“I'm sorry. That was mean. I'm sorry.”

Zayn nods, eyebrows drawn together. “No, you're right.” He waits for Harry to say something, but when he doesn't, he nods his head and opens his mouth to say something else but Harry interrupts.

“I should go,” he says, kicking his proverbial eighteen year old self in the stomach. His first fucking date with Zayn. “I'm being mean and I'm not in my right state of mind and I very obviously do stupid things when I'm with you and my best friend died and I wasn't prepared.”

Zayn doesn't say anything but he looks terribly sad all of a sudden and Harry can't bear to see that, despite his valiant efforts. “I'm gonna go,” he reaffirms quietly and turns towards the steps of his apartment building before Zayn can react.

He takes shaky steps up to his apartment and rests his head against the cool wood of his door once he’s inside, heart hammering in his chest. It seems as though irony has slapped him in the face, _again_. He gathers himself enough to walk over to his window to at least watch Zayn go, Pepsi nudging her head into his ankle, but Zayn’s gone by the time he reaches the window. Suddenly there’s a knock at the door and he thinks, _fuck_. When he walks over to open it, heart in his mouth, Zayn is standing there and he raises his hands in front of him to shush Harry before he can start.

“Look,” he says, sounding breathless and pointedly avoiding Pepsi at his feet so as to not distract himself, Harry assumes. He takes a moment to wonder how he found his apartment among the rest but then remembers he has a Columbia sticker smack in the middle of his door.

“I don't want to do this anymore.  Harry, this isn't right." He looks up at him and his features look softer.  "I don't know if you feel the same way but I just," he presses a hand to his chest and it looks like he's hurting there. Right in his heart. "I can't not be with you anymore.  I can't wait.  This is what's right. Can't you feel it?"

When Harry doesn't respond, he steps forward and says, sadly, "We love each other. And things are weird now but we'll get there because we always have, and we need each other.  And we love each other.  Don't you love me?"

Harry does, but he doesn’t tell him, of course. Instead, he says, “Zayn, your ex was my best friend and she’s dead.”

Zayn steps forward and into the apartment. “Harry, I know. I know. I know. I’m reminded every time I see you and every time I think of you and every other second of the day. I know, I promise. Despite what you may believe I _did_ love her and it hurts me too. There used to be this heavy ache that I carried around with me because I felt _so_ terrible about what I did to her, but then it got better when she found a new boyfriend and then got engaged and moved on, even though I was sitting in my eerily empty apartment thinking of my ex-girlfriend’s fucking best friend and telling myself that it would never happen. All I’m saying is that it _can_ happen. We have to move forward. Nothing we do can stop the car crash from happening. Nothing I do can reverse my stupid blushing when we first met.” He takes a minute to breathe and Harry feels like he needs the break, too—overwhelmed by the new surge of information.

“Or every time we talked, for that matter,” Zayn adds and smiles softly. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for Harry’s but is too scared. “Dating her wasn’t a mistake, but it was never meant to last, Harry. It is with you. Something bigger is pulling us together, which sounds stupid, I know-” he cuts himself off and scoffs, shaking his head like he feels stupid for even bringing it up.

Harry, feeling overwhelmed at the speed of Zayn’s confessions, glances at Zayn’s face, which has progressively become more and more flushed by the minute. “Look,” he says, quieter than he's been speaking. “I've never done this before. I've only been with Ilona so this is brand new to me. I'm sorry if I'm missing something. I'm trying my best.”

Harry feels so bewildered that he fears he may pass out. He doesn't, though. Instead, he kisses Zayn.

Zayn gasps softly, pulse stuttering against Harry’s thumb on his neck, and cups his face, stepping on his foot in haste to get further inside the apartment. They break apart and laugh, Harry feigning pain and Zayn biting his nose before walking them into Harry’s apartment.

“Are we?” Zayn asks quietly, hand on Harry’s chest, when they bump into his couch. He looks so hopeful that Harry has to nod and when he does, Zayn sighs and kisses him again, this time with both hands on his face, tongue dragging over Harry’s bottom lip. Harry’s toes curl in his shoes as the kiss deepens - he hasn't kissed Zayn in years and he'd forgotten the feel of his lips and being reminded feels like a swift kick to the stomach. His insides feel like they've been thrown in a washing machine even at the slightest touch and when Zayn moves his mouth from Harry’s lips to his neck, he thinks he might start bubbling over.

“I've wanted this,” Zayn admits quietly as he kisses the spot below Harry’s ear. He presses another kiss to Harry’s lips, open and confident and vulnerable, and says, “This is all I've thought about for as long as I can remember.”

“What?” Harry indulges.

“You,” Zayn sighs, leaning in and kissing his lips. “I want you so much, Harry, I feel stupid. What’s wrong with me?” He whimpers, letting his forehead fall down onto Harry’s shoulder. The moment feels so bare, so stripped of everything they've been hiding for all those years, that Harry can't help but resign and give up all notions of keeping their clothes on, fumbling with Zayn’s shirt before tugging it over his head and kissing his chest. Zayn's cheeks flush once his shirt is over his head, biting his lip as he watches Harry’s reaction and letting his head fall loose on his neck as though his spine is turning to liquid when he drags his hands softly down his stomach, breath catching in his throat even more when Harry bites gently at his neck. His hands reach for the bottom of Harry’s shirt but before he can pull it off of him, Harry sinks down to his knees and starts working at the button on Zayn’s pants.

“Harry,” Zayn gasps when Harry manages to pull his pants down. “Babe,” he whimpers, fingers digging into the back of Harry’s neck when Harry palms him through his briefs. He doesn't look up so Zayn tries again, cupping his cheek and lifting his chin. “Hey, what's the rush? Why are you going so fast?”

Harry huffs, impatient. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

“What I wanted?”

“You said you wanted to be with me, so I'm trying to make that happen as quickly as possible so you can catch the next subway back.”

“What?” Zayn asks, pulling back. “Catch the next subway back?” Harry doesn't respond and Zayn seems to get it, eyebrows drawing together. “Did you think I meant for this to be a one time thing?”

“ _I_ did.”

The silence around them feels shattering, quiet enough for Harry to hear all his bones breaking under the intensity of the moment, and he has to dig his nails into the sides of his thighs to keep from taking it back and crying like a baby into Zayn’s thigh. After a minute of staring, Zayn still doesn’t say anything and Harry lowers his head, looking down at Zayn’s shoes and waiting for his heart to stop hammering on the walls of his ribcage.

“What do you mean?” Zayn finally says, voice cracking and contrasting with the softness of his tone. Harry can’t seem to catch his breath and when he doesn't reply, Zayn nudges him, pulling back and saying, with more force this time, “Harry—what does that mean?”

“What?” Harry mimics, still not looking at him.

“Where is this coming from?” Zayn demands, pulling Harry’s chin up roughly.

“Where is what coming from?”

“This! A few years ago you were—I mean—I’m not—but—”

“But what?”

“I thought you loved me!” Zayn exclaims, pulling his pants—and Harry—up suddenly and throwing his arms out, confusion clear on his face. “This—this doesn’t make any sense, Harry!”

“Why not?” Harry pushes despite the tears nudging at the backs of his eyes in response to Zayn’s words. He takes a calculated breath and tries not to cry.

“Because I said all those things earlier and I—we kissed for the first time all those years ago and that was the the most I’ve ever felt for someone, ever. You made me feel so calm and so scared and so happy and so nervous at the same time. Especially when we were together. I was petrified that I liked you more than I liked my long-term girlfriend and then I was even more scared that I’d messed it all up by kissing you, because our friendship meant so much to me, but then we did it again and I thought I must be crazy, because I was so into you and I thought maybe the feeling was mutual—I was ecstatic because I thought that was it, I thought I’d finally found my person, but—God, Harry, do you like me at all? Do you feel sorry for me? Is that what all this was? Did you think you could suck my dick and get rid of me for good?” He sounds so sad when he says it that Harry has to look away.

“Don’t be stupid Zayn,” he snaps, suddenly furious.

“Then tell me what’s going on!”

“I can’t!”

“You can!”

“No, I mean, I can’t be with you.”

“Because of Ilona?”

“Clearly because of Ilona, why else?”

Zayn stops, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes with a shaky sigh. “So that’s it, then? You won’t be with me? After everything, you don’t think it’s worth it?”

“My best friend’s integrity is worth more to me than you may think, Zayn,” he retorts and watches Zayn shake his head, sighing again.

“This is it?” Zayn asks again after turning his body to the door, head bowed so he doesn’t look at him, angry facade gone and replaced with the sadness that filled his eyes a minute ago. It’s so painful to watch that Harry has to bite his tongue to keep from crying. “This is it?” Quietly. “I love you,” he says, voice cracking from exertion and although he muffles it into the palm of his hand, Harry hears it and his heart snaps cleanly in two. Actually, it launches itself out of his chest in one piece, landing on the floor in front of him and sputtering out like an old hose. Normally his brain would catch up and offer it a tissue, but he feels so lost - so sad, that he can’t think straight, and sighs as he gives into the feeling.

“This is it, Zayn,” he says sadly, bones crunching underneath his feet as he stomps all over them, feeling as though he’s left his body, and wipes his lips with the back of his hand so he doesn’t lick over them hours later and cry at the taste of him. His lungs burn as he says it, fingers numb, head spinning, and tongue heavy in his mouth as though his entire body is trying to stop him from making the final decision. “This is it.”

_This is it._

Zayn nods, shoulders dropping as he says, “Alright then,” and walks out, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

 

***

 

_6 MONTHS LATER_

Harry has just one mission on Wednesday, April 16, and it’s to finally clean his god forsaken bathroom mirror. He hasn’t used _Windex_ since he moved away from Manhattan, and even then, he never purchased it. In California, his mom bought it, and in Manhattan, it was Ilona’s responsibility. Of course, he’s never so much as given it a second glance in a store so he doesn’t even know what aisle to find it in, but something about the cleaning product itself feels so familiar that he’s sure he must have it _somewhere_ , he just has to _look_. It’s not in his bathroom cabinet, he concludes after half an hour of searching, and it’s not under his kitchen sink, although he does find a suspiciously fuzzy grape that he suspects has been there since he first moved in. After an hour of searching for that stupid bottle of _Windex_ , he comes to realize that he has no reason to believe he owns it. He’s never thought to use it before, anyway. Now, though, his mirror has accumulated little white dots of sprayed soap over the past few months and while he wipes it over with a wet paper towel every now and then, it’s gotten bad enough that even he feels it’s time to run down to the corner store.

He does—not without forgetting his wallet first, which isn’t too rare so he’s not bothered—and it takes longer than it should because he makes a not-so-quick detour at the chips aisle first. By four, though, he’s back in his apartment, smiling softly at the spring sun pouring in through the window and a plastic bag holding a bottle of _Windex_ in his hand.

He shuffles his favorite cleaning playlist and makes his way to the bathroom, humming under his breath, but when he walks inside, his breath is knocked out of his chest and lets out an embarrassing shriek, arms flying out at his sides to balance him.

Zoe, sitting on the sink in her usual black clothes, laughs rambunctiously. “Still not used to my appearances, Harry?”

“What are you doing here?” He yells when he finally gets his voice back. “I haven’t seen you in years!”

“You haven’t needed me in years,” she replies curtly.

His heart stops in his chest. “What, am I dying again?”

“No,” she laughs, “not this time. I just wanted to check up on you. How have you been since your recovery?”

Harry rolls his eyes at her aloofness, so distracted that he momentarily forgets he’s mad at her and when he remembers, he hurls his bag at her and cries, “Why did you kill Ilona?”

“Harry,” she sighs, standing. “I didn’t _kill_ anyone. She died. It’s what the universe needed.”

“Why did you have to make everything so fucking complicated?” He groans, face in his hands, head pounding with a migraine at the sudden shock of seeing the deity of fucking _death_ again so after so many years.

“I didn’t make anything complicated, Harry. You did. And now I’m here to help.”

“What could I have possibly done wrong, Zoe?” he asks caustically. “My best friend died and my soulmate left me and I’m only twenty five and my life has been a mess since I was seventeen and I’m dealing.”

“Your soulmate didn’t leave you. You left him.”

“Is that why you came here? To berate me?”

Zoe sighs. “I always get too involved,” she mutters and knocks over Harry’s soap dispenser for no reason other than to watch him huff angrily. “He’s your soulmate and there’s nothing you can do about that, Harry. There’s nothing Ilona could have done and there’s nothing Zayn could have done. All there’s left is for you to be together. I came because I see you willowing away in your despair. You haven’t cleaned your bathroom in months, Harry. That’s _honestly_ disgusting. It doesn’t need to be like this.”

“I have respect for my best friend, despite everything,” Harry mutters. “I can’t do that to her.”

“I know you do, and so does Zayn. If you have any respect left for him, though, you’ll give him this. Remember, Harry: there are two of you. He’s not just your soulmate. You’re his. You’re taking this chance away from him because you think you’re being selfish. You’re not. I had to come out of my way in the realm of the living to tell you that. Pull yourself together and find him.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, she interrupts him again.

“Don't convince yourself that I favor mortals. I help out idiots, sometimes, but you won't be seeing me again after this. Not for a long time, at least, so get your life together. Now, I have things to do. I won't be seeing you, Harry.” With that, she vanishes, leaving behind only Harry’s knocked over soap as evidence that she was ever there.

He closes his eyes, brain overloading with information and his head hurts so much suddenly that he has to sit down on the edge of his bathtub and hold it in his hands. He pictures Zayn—sweet, lovely, Zayn—living his life without his soulmate because Harry’s being immature and inconsiderate. He thinks of Zayn taking him back and kissing him sweetly in his apartment in Soho - the one Harry still has never been in, of him and Zayn holding hands in public and telling their friends they’re dating and spending Christmases together with their families bonding behind them while they drink mulled wine and whisper lovingly to each other on the couch by the fire, gifts long forgotten.

He also thinks of what his life would be like without Zayn, of ignoring Zoe’s advice and growing old alone and dying with Zayn’s words spinning around in his head and bouncing off the inside of his skull.

_”After everything, you don’t think it’s worth it?”_

_I do_ , he wants to grab onto Zayn’s shoulders and yell. _I do I do I do_.

 

***

 

On a whim, he finds himself in front of Zayn’s apartment complex, thankful that Zayn texted him the address when they first scheduled their date nearly a year ago. He doesn’t bite his nails, but if he did, they would be bitten down to the core, he realizes with a sad sigh. He doesn’t even know what he wants to say to him, just knows that the _I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter_ in the plastic bag in his hand must be melting from how long he’s been standing motionless, staring at the sleek grey exterior of the Soho building. It’s fairly chilly for an April afternoon, goosebumps breaking out on his arms despite his thick cotton shirt. He wonders how Zayn has changed over the months since Harry decidedly acted out of his ass. He wonders if his hands are still soft or if his bottom lip still has that sweet curve to it, sweet enough that it makes Harry shiver every time he sees it up close. He wonders if Zayn dated anyone else since they parted, if he finally came to his senses and realized that soulmate or not, he deserves better than him. He wonders if he’s been to Brooklyn since, or if Harry ruined the entire area for him. He hopes not. It’s a beautiful part of New York, although he wouldn’t blame Zayn if he never wanted to go back there.

“Harry?” Comes a voice behind him and Harry sighs in shame. He can’t do anything right - of course he can’t - much less surprise Zayn in his own building.

“Hi,” he says, turning around and offering a smile when he sees Zayn, breathtaking in his simple black t-shirt and jeans.

“What are you doing here?” Zayn asks, not showing any signs of disgust, for which Harry is thankful. He does seem guarded, though, lips set in an _almost_ -smile, like he wants to but won’t allow himself to.

“I thought you were inside,” he admits. “I was going to turn up and surprise you, but. _You_ surprised _me_.” He laughs. “This wasn’t planned. Well. None of this was planned.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees.

“I brought fake butter and toast.”

Zayn still doesn’t smile, rubbing the back of his neck when he sees the bag in Harry’s hand. “Okay…” he says. “Did you want to catch up? Is today an anniversary of an important date?”

“No,” Harry shakes his head, embarrassed. “No. No. I just wanted to…” he trails off.

Zayn waits.

“I wanted you,” Harry finally says with a shrug, as though his heart isn’t pounding against his ribcage.

“Okay,” Zayn laughs, still not smiling, face even harder than before. “Thanks for the update.” He says and turns towards the complex.

“No!” Harry breathes, breath catching on the word, but Zayn doesn’t hear. “Zayn, wait.”

“Harry,” Zayn sighs, face softer. “It’s not worth it. You told me that last time and I didn’t want to believe it but I see your reasoning now.”

“No, Zayn,” Harry says weakly, giving up all notions of integrity and running up to him, grabbing the front of his shirt and fisting it in his hands. It mustn't feel great, but he doesn’t complain, staring at Harry. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. You have to believe me. I didn’t mean it. I thought I was doing what was best for us out of respect for Ilona, but, I realize now.”

“Realize what, Harry?” Zayn asks lowly.

“Realize that we...”

Zayn sighs sadly and moves to detach himself from Harry, but Harry doesn’t let him, changing his mind at the last minute.

“Jesus, give me a fucking second, Zayn.  Not all of us are as eloquent as you are.”

Zayn smiles for the first time, so Harry continues. 

"I don't know how I've been living without you for so long. I'm so fucking in love with you. Sometimes I can't even remember if I was able to see in color before we first met."

Zayn laughs. "Shut up."

Harry laughs too, but follows through. "I mean it! I honestly think I was color blind before we met. I think I saw you and you  _literally_ changed my life."

"God, you're an idiot," he says, cupping one hand over Harry's cheek. 

Zayn pauses in his movements, both of them still, frozen in the silence around them.

“Do you mean it this time?” He asks softly, eyes trained on the Harry's. “Because if you don’t, you can go now so you don’t miss your subway.”

Harry laughs painfully, cheeks stinging in regret as he remembers how harsh he was the last time they met. “That was so shitty of me. I’m sorry. I mean it this time. Us. For real.”

Zayn looks back up at him, hopeful. “For real?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” Harry repeats and takes Zayn’s hand, pulling them together.

“God,” Zayn says, shoving him on his shoulder. “You make me feel like I’m crazy. I was so sure we were like, supposed to be together, by some weird supernatural law, but then you said no and I couldn’t figure it out. It sounds absurd, god, I know,” he sighs and shakes his head, cheeks red.

Harry laughs, then. “It’s not absurd. I think that too, sometimes. All the time, really.”

Zayn chuckles, then stops, and looks at Harry with a melancholy smile. "I know we've only been dating for a few seconds but I think you're my soul mate.  So if you break my heart again I don't think I'll recover."

He says it softly but Harry hears every word. "God, I won't.  I'm sorry for being horrible."

Zayn sighs and looks at him with big, somber eyes. “No, I’m sorry. For everything I did to you.”

“Hey, stop. We both did some shit but...we ended up fine, didn’t we?” 

Zayn gives him a piercing look and asks, quietly. “Did we?”

“Yeah. Yes. We did,” Harry confirms and can't stop his face from heating as he smiles genuinely for the first time in what feels like years.

Zayn smiles and nods, looking relieved. He kisses Harry’s hand and says, “I missed you,” quietly. “And I missed that fucking butter. I haven’t had it in I don’t know how long. Didn’t feel right.”

Harry’s heart seems to stop momentarily, then jolt back to life and he feels so much affection suddenly that it embarrasses him. He can’t be bothered though, and instead leans in to finally kiss Zayn, one hand holding his face and the stupid bag of bread and butter, and the other still clutching Zayn’s hand, fingers clasped tightly.

When he pulls away, he says, “let’s have some, then," and they both smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All done! :) Hope everyone enjoyed it.

**Author's Note:**

> Come leave feedback on my tumblr! [Vacryna](www.vacryna.tumblr.com)


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